


But that's not why I'm here

by skeilig



Series: They say love makes you crazy [1]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - No Pennywise (IT), F/M, Friends to Lovers, Gen, Jealous Eddie Kaspbrak, M/M, Multi, Richie is the Greg, Slow Burn, because that would be bonkers, endgame Reddie, one sided Eddie/Bill, this doesn't follow the plot of cxgf exactly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-12
Updated: 2020-02-23
Packaged: 2021-01-29 05:18:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 55,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21404827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skeilig/pseuds/skeilig
Summary: Eddie grabs Stan’s arm and yanks him farther along, to the end of the driveway. “Okay, listen. We were childhood friends. We went to the same summer camp every year, from age eight to, like, fifteen. That’s it. And we were penpals in between, but, anyway, I ran into him last week in New York. I was having a terrible week, and suddenly he was there, and I was like, 'Bill Denbrough?' And he smiled and he was like, ‘Oh, hi, Eddie.’ And he’s likeglowing, and he says, 'I live in L.A. now and it’s great and I’m so happy,' and I was like, hmm, happy, what’s that like, so I quit my job and I moved out here. And I know that sounds crazy, like I moved here for him, but I didn’t move here for him, he just happens to live here. As do four million other people. Thirteen million if you include the entire metro area. So, I am not crazy.”+ When Eddie runs into a childhood friend, he moves to L.A. on a whim. | Crazy Ex-Girlfriend AU
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak & Stanley Uris, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Series: They say love makes you crazy [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1614733
Comments: 177
Kudos: 265
Collections: It Faves





	1. Bill just happens to live here!

Eddie has just returned to the office after a coffee run when he hears the receptionist, Sara, hiss his name: “Eddie! Eddie!”

“What?” He stops on his heel and looks down at her expectantly.

She nods over to the conference room, and says, just like the line in _Poltergeist_, “They’re _heeere_.” 

Eddie follows her gaze over to the glass-walled room. Inside, at one end of the long table, sit two men and a woman all in dark gray suits. “Shit.” Eddie drops to a crouch for a second beside Sara’s desk and she starts laughing, stifling it behind a hand.

“Are you _hiding_? From a promotion?”

“How do I look?” Eddie asks. He reaches for his latte and slams the rest of it in a few gulps, hopes his Lactaid won’t fail him now. 

“You look _fine_. Go knock ‘em dead.”

Eddie nods solemnly and rises again, glancing around to ensure that no one noticed his antics. Then he smooths out his tie and continues to the conference room. Inside, he smiles politely and shakes their hands and sits up straight in his chair. They compliment his work ethic, his dedication, how he’s never missed a day of work… And then they offer him partner. That “& Kaspbrak” that he’s been after as long as he can remember—and a staggering salary. 

Eddie smiles back, nods. Pauses. His mouth is dry. He has tunnel-vision. And not the kind where he’s singularly focused on his goals—the kind where the edges of his sight go blurry and he can’t hear their voices over the rushing in his ears. He feels nauseous, maybe bloated? Did he forget to take his Lactaid before he had that latte? _Shit_. 

His body is a few steps ahead of his brain, so he stands up suddenly, his mouth open. “Uh. I’ll be right back.” And he rushes out of the conference room without another look, then continues past Sara at the reception desk as she calls his name, and out of the office. He bounds down the stairs, two at a time, five flights down, and then he’s on the street. Still breathing heavy. His internal mantra of _fuck, fuck, shit, fuck_, becomes external as he doubles over in the alley, wheezing, dizzy. 

“Pull yourself together, Eds,” he mutters to himself as he fumbles out his inhaler and takes a puff. “This is what you wanted, this is what you _worked_ for, this is what it’s all been leading to, what it’s all been for…” Something about his words of self-encouragement make him slightly light-headed. Maybe he needs an early lunch. But he had a good breakfast and it’s barely after ten. 

Thinking back on what he ate and trying to decide whether or not he’s hungry seems to calm him down. Soon enough, he’s pushing himself off the alley wall and heading out in search of a bagel. Heavy on the carbs, but he deserves a treat. He’ll get some sustenance, go back in there, apologize for his strange behavior, and accept the position. Then the next chapter of his life will begin. _The final chapter_, his brain supplies, unhelpfully. And, well, no; his life isn’t _over_. He just hasn’t thought much farther than this, hasn’t planned for the day _after_ he gets everything he’s worked for. But there’s always the next thing to aim for. He’ll figure out what it is. But first: bagel. 

Out on the street, he quickly makes his way to his favorite place, four blocks away. He’s a fast walker, even by Manhattan standards, cutting his way through traffic. When he glances up to cross the street, he spots a familiar face and stops dead in his tracks. Some guy runs right into him and cusses him out, and Eddie says, on auto-pilot, “Fuck you, too,” but doesn’t stop staring.

Across the intersection, squinting up at the skyscrapers around him and seemingly bathed in a warm glow, is… Bill Denbrough. Eddie’s sure of it. He looks how he would have expected him to, all grown up; same eyes, same way of holding himself. He’s dressed casually, unbuttoned plaid over a t-shirt, dark jeans. 

In the second after the traffic light changes, Eddie darts across the street toward him and is rewarded with a deafening chorus of honking horns. That gets Bill’s attention, so his eyes are already on him when Eddie reaches the other side.

“Bill?”

Bill looks back at him, taking in the well-tailored suit, sharp haircut. “Eddie Kaspbrak?”

“Yeah.” Eddie shrugs, feeling awkward now that he chased him down. Bill, who he hasn’t seen in twenty years. Hasn’t spoken to in almost as long. 

But then Bill smiles wide and says, “Bring it in, man,” before pulling Eddie in for a hug.

Eddie lets out an, “Oh,” and hugs him back. They’re close in height, neither especially tall, and Eddie tucks his chin over his shoulder. The unwelcome thought that pops into Eddie’s head is: _When’s the last time he’s hugged someone? Like, really hugged, for more than half a second?_ God, he’s in a weird mood today. 

When Bill’s arms loosen around his back, Eddie steps back. “So, you live in New York? I had no idea.”

“No, I was here for a few months for work but I’m heading home. L.A.” He smiles, looking worn and genuine. “Can’t wait to get back to the sss-su-sun.” He gestures up to the overcast sky. “No offense.” 

Eddie smiles back; it’s infectious. He almost forgot about the stutter, but hearing it is as comforting as seeing his face, somehow. “Well, shoot, I wish I had known you were here. We should meet up before you leave.”

“I leave tomorrow,” he says, guilty smile. “But, hey, I’m sure I’ll be back sometime. And if you’re ever in L.A., hit me up, okay?” Bill begins to back away, still smiling. “Good to see you again, Eddie.”

Eddie calls after him, “Good to see you! And I will!” 

Then he stands on the sidewalk for a few more moments before he remembers what he was doing before. But the dread doesn’t set back in; and he doesn’t need a bagel anymore. He returns to the office, politely declines the offer, refuses to explain why, and then gets out of there as quickly as he can, ignoring Sara’s bewildered look as he rushes past. 

Following the momentum, Eddie breaks his lease and he packs his shit and he rents a townhouse in the Valley and he gets a job he’s vastly overqualified for. 

Just five days later, he’s standing in the kitchen of his new, furniture-barren home, dumping his prescription pills down the drain while his mom yells at him over the speaker of his cell phone.

“I can’t believe you’re doing this to me, Eddie,” she cries, sounding on the verge of hysterical tears again. “I raised you, I put you through law school, and this is how you repay me? You throw everything away and move across the country? I know you’ll realize this is a mistake and you’ll come back. If you apologize, they might still—”

Eddie clicks the end call button without remorse and blocks her number before she calls back. (He’ll unblock it tomorrow, he just needs a _break_.) Then he sits down on his couch, the only furniture he has at the moment, and scrolls through his contacts to Bill. 

_Hey, Bill!_ he starts, then stops and stares at it. He backspaces, pauses, only to type out the same thing again. _Hey, Bill! You know how you said if I’m ever in L.A. I should hit you up? Well, here I am, hitting you up._ Eddie grimaces and deletes the whole thing, starts over again. _Hey, Bill! Crazy coincidence. Right after I saw you last week in New York, I got a job offer and relocated to L.A. We should get coffee or drinks or something sometime!_

Wincing, Eddie hits send. Then he settles back on the couch—his makeshift bed until he gets a chance to buy one—and tries to sleep. But he’s still tense with energy so when his phone buzzes on his chest a minute later, he nearly flings it across the room in his eagerness to view the notification. 

But it’s just an email. And an automated one at that; coupons from the Co-Op he used to shop at, in New York. He unsubscribes from the mailing list and spends a few minutes cleaning out his inbox before he lays the phone back on his chest. 

At some point he must fall asleep, because when his eyes open again, there’s a faint pre-sunrise glow from the windows. It’s early; he’s still caught in eastern time. He blinks at the empty, white-walled room for a few seconds, disoriented, before he remembers: _Oh, right, I moved across the country._ Then he remembers something else and his chest seizes up as he grapples for his phone, finds it wedged between the couch cushions. 

No new texts. He looks at the one he sent to Bill last night, grimaces. _Or something sometime!_ Could he have sounded more pathetic if he tried? Trying to pull himself together, he takes a shower and gets dressed and eats dry cereal for breakfast, and leaves for his first day of work way too early. Bill still hasn’t texted, but it’s barely after seven. 

The Valley is much more sprawling than New York. His car is brand new, still with the dealership plates; he bought the first one he test-drove yesterday, another Cadillac. As he drives, Eddie thinks he needs to go to the DMV soon, get California plates, a new driver’s license. His to-do list is long, but he likes it that way, likes to stay busy.

After killing time in the parking lot for half an hour—he finds the local public radio station and programs it in as a favorite—Eddie goes into the office building. It’s modest, only two floors. On the first floor is a Lebanese deli and a nail salon. He follows the Hanlon & Associates signs upstairs. He greets the receptionist, but before he can say much more than ‘hello,’ a tall man in a tan suit jacket and a bolo tie runs out of his office to greet him. 

“You must be Edward,” he says, taking his hand.

“Eddie’s fine. Mr. Hanlon?”

“Call me Mike.” After breaking the enthusiastic handshake, Mike ushers Eddie farther into the office, saying, “We’re all so excited to have you here.” As they pass a woman at the printer, Mike points to Eddie and stage-whispers: “Harvard and Yale.”

They stop in front of an empty desk; next to it, a man with dark curly hair and wire-frame glasses stands up. “Hi. Stanley Uris.”

Eddie shakes his hand. “Nice to meet you.”

Mike narrates from behind him: “Stan the Man. World's best paralegal. And your desk neighbor.”

The rest of the office tour is short and uneventful. Printer and copier, office supplies, kitchenette, bathroom. Eddie tries to remember his coworkers’ names, but he’s sure it will take him a week or so to get it down. The office itself is well-kept; some squares of carpet need replacing, and there’s a certain strip-mall mustiness, but there are enough windows to keep it feeling fresh. Then Eddie ends up in Mike’s office, which looks like an Arizona gift shop. There’s a stuffed jackalope sitting on a shelf behind him, a tapestry on the wall, a feathered dreamcatcher hanging in front of the window. (Oh, how he wishes his mother could see this; it might kill her.) Eddie tries very hard to focus on the paperwork and nods along to Mike’s small talk. Turns out, he grew up on a ranch in Nevada. Eddie says, "Ah, that explains it," and Mike asks, "Explains what?"

When he’s released back to his desk, he feels Stanley’s eyes on him for a few minutes before he breaks the silence.

“So,” Stanley says. “What brings you to L.A.?”

“Oh, you know,” Eddie begins with a friendly smile. “Change of scenery. Got tired of New York.”

Stan regards him skeptically. Eddie notes how meticulously organized his desk is. Hell, Eddie’s is messier and he’s only been here a few minutes. A few pens are laid out to the right of his computer, perfectly parallel. Post-it notes stacked above that, in a nice gradient from pink to red to orange to yellow. 

“You know anyone out here?” Stan asks. “Any family?”

Eddie considers for a moment, pursing his lips. He’s heard that he has cousins in Seattle, but that’s hardly nearby. And he hardly knows them. “No,” he answers with a simple shrug.

Stan hums and then his eyes flicker downward, running over Eddie’s suit down to his feet. “Knock-offs?” 

Eddie looks down at his Gucci loafers, the gold buckle gleaming under the fluorescents. He gives Stan a sheepish smile. “I got them on sale. A bit of fun, right?”

Stan hums again and turns back to his computer. 

Eddie has a lot of reading to do to get up to speed on Hanlon & Associates’ current clients, so he dives into that. Barely an hour in, his phone vibrates harshly against his desk and startles him. 

“Sorry,” he mutters, catching a few of his coworkers’ eyes as he grabs the phone.

His heart leaps at the notification. Bill.

_That’s great! I’m going to a party tonight if you want to stop by._

He follows up with the address. Eddie’s smiling so wide his cheeks hurt and when he glances up, Stanley is watching him. He wrangles his expression back to a neutral half-frown and texts back, _Great! I’ll be there!_ before pocketing his phone. 

At lunch, Mike insists on taking him to the deli downstairs and Eddie obliges. When they sit down, Mike says, “Did you notice anything… off? About the office?”

Eddie takes a bite and chews more than he has to, stalling after that weird question. After he swallows and takes a drink, he finally says, “Um. No?”

Mike’s face relaxes. “Oh, good. We’ve been having problems with mildew… Or mold? I don’t really know the difference.”

He looks at Eddie like he expects him to explain it, but Eddie just frowns and shakes his head, in an ‘I dunno’ gesture. 

Mike continues, “Stanley’s been complaining about the smell for months, he thinks it’s the carpeting. But to tell you the truth, I have never noticed it.” 

Eddie waits under Mike’s expectant gaze for a few moments before he says, “Yeah, I didn’t really notice anything.” 

“That’s a relief.” Mike takes another bite of his sandwich, as Eddie pokes at his plate with a fork. The talk of mold might have harmed his appetite slightly. “The tabouli’s good here,” Mike says, and Eddie hurriedly agrees, taking a big bite. 

+

The house is sprawling, like everything out here—is the land _free?_—ranch-style, a couple tiki torches lining the driveway. Eddie smiles and nods at the people hanging out in the front yard and on the porch but none of them so much as glance his direction. And none of them are Bill. So he continues on into the house, into the kitchen. He scans the faces again, sees no one he recognizes, and glances at his phone. It’s a little after seven; maybe too early still. He tried not to be early, even sat at home an extra half hour in his shoes, keys in hand, before he allowed himself to go. Eddie’s not a big party person—surprise, surprise—and going to a party alone, where he’ll only know one person, is not something he’s ever done. He looks at his phone again, re-reading his texts with Bill, and reminds himself that no one’s looking at him, no one’s wondering why he’s here alone…

Then he pours himself a beer from the keg and continues through the house to the backyard. There’s a small pool surrounded by lawn furniture. String lights lead from the roof of the house to a tree and back again, forming a triangle over the patio. Eddie looks around at the faces again, gripping his drink in one hand and then he sees—

“Mike?”

His _boss_ is here. Sitting around the edge of the pool, khakis rolled up mid-calf, kicking his feet in, along with a few other people. 

Mike’s face lights up. “Eddie! What are you doing here?” Eddie makes his way over to the group. Mike sits with two other men and a woman. “This is Eddie Kaspbrak, I just hired him. Harvard and Yale.” 

Their eyebrows rise in unison and Eddie breaks into a self-conscious sweat. “Hey, uh, well, I just moved to town, obviously. But my old friend Bill—Bill Denbrough—lives out here, and he said he was gonna be here tonight? Do you know him?” 

“Oh, yeah, we know him,” one of the guys says.

“Oh.” Eddie glances over to him. He has sort of shaggy hair, black plastic-framed glasses. His jeans are rolled up to his knees. “Have you seen him?

“Not yet. But I’m sure he’ll roll in fashionably late. I’m Richie, by the way.” He transfers his drink to his left hand and offers Eddie his right.

The red-haired woman hanging off Richie’s shoulder introduces herself as Bev. The other man, who looks like he should be in a cologne ad, introduces himself as Ben.

After that, Eddie gets filled in on the connection. Mike has been friends with Ben since they were college roommates. Ben has taken improv and acting classes with Richie and Bev. Apparently Bev and Bill used to date, which Richie reveals with the opposite of tact and Bev whacks his arm. (Eddie’s stomach twists— she’s gorgeous. And a woman. But ‘used to’…) 

Eddie stays on the periphery as the group of friends talk and joke and laugh, but it’s not awkward or uncomfortable. They include him, they explain things to him; he enjoys being a part of their little poolside bubble. 

Half an hour later, Richie says, “Oh, Bill’s here.”

Eddie jumps up in excitement and spins around to see Bill. Bill, grinning and talking to someone on the patio. Bill, with his arm around a woman’s waist. And the woman looks a lot like Audra Phillips, B-list movie star, now that Eddie’s thinking about it.

Eddie feels the smile freeze awkwardly on his face right when Bill meets his eye. 

“Eddie, you made it!” Bill makes his way over to him, says a hello to the rest of the group. “Looks like you all met each other already. Eddie, this is my girlfriend, Audra. Audra, Eddie and I were childhood friends. We went to summer camp together.”

Eddie’s smile still feels like a grimace. (He’s so stupid. So fucking stupid. He should have known.) “Yeah, every summer for eight years.” 

“Oh, how cute.” She shakes his hand, beams at him. “So nice to meet you.” 

“So, what’s the job?” Bill asks.

“Huh?”

“You said you relocated because of a juh- a job offer. What’s the job?” 

Eddie wonders if Mike overheard that, wonders if he’ll call bullshit and clarify that actually Eddie was the one who applied for the job—practically begged for it—and ask why Eddie’s been lying to his friend about the motivating reason for his move. And Eddie knows the job isn’t that impressive—a big downwardly mobile career move for him, really—but he can’t exactly lie about it with his boss standing a few feet behind him. And Eddie feels that sensation of tunnel-vision again, the sound of the party blurring, pulse pounding in his head.

“I’ll be right back,” he slurs, and rushes past them to the house. He wants a bathroom but the first door he tries lands him in a bedroom that’s thankfully unoccupied. But when he tries to shut the door behind him, it bangs into something. Or someone.

“Hey.” It’s Richie, slipping inside the bedroom after him. 

“What are you—? Are you alone?” Eddie clenches and unclenches his fists, standing in the middle of the room, aware that he probably looks insane.

“Yeah?” Richie sits down on the edge of the bed with a sigh. “So, a childhood friend?” 

Eddie doesn’t say anything. (Fuck. _Fuck_. Maybe his mother was right, if he apologizes, they’ll probably take him back in New York, he can chock this up to a minor nervous breakdown. Well, minor by Eddie Kaspbrak standards. He really moved to the Valley—the fucking _Valley_—on the strength of, what, hoping to reconnect with a friend, a childhood crush, someone who made him feel special? Wanting to be happy again, wanting to _feel_ something? You can do fucking better, Eds. Get some real problems.)

Richie says, “You didn’t know he was dating Audra Phillips, I take it? And now you’re, like, freaking out about it?”

“I’m not freaking out,” Eddie bites back, on instinct. He could manage that sentence with the world burning down around him, with his last breath of oxygen. Speaking of— Eddie doubles over and brings a hand to his chest as he draws in a wheezing breath. “Fuck. I threw out my inhaler. _Fuck_.”

Richie is on his feet in an instant, hand on his back. “Why’d you do that?”

“Because I don’t actually have asthma, it’s just like, a placebo thing.” Eddie imagines it, the way he changes his breathing, opens his chest, deepens his lungs. He can practically taste it. And it works. In a few seconds, he straightens back up.

“Oh… kay,” Richie says. “Putting a pin in that. Deep breaths, yeah. You good?”

Eddie nods. Richie’s hands are on his shoulders and he steers him over to the bed and sits down beside him. 

“Look,” Richie says, an arm still around Eddie’s shoulder, “The thing you need to understand about Bill is… he’s kind of an asshole. Love him dearly, but he’s kinda selfish and clueless. And, okay, I’m not proud of it, but I’ve been there, dude. A couple times. And he’s straight. He’s painfully straight.”

“Oh.” Eddie shifts his weight, cheeks burning. “How long have you known him?”

“Oh, five years? Maybe six or seven… I work at this bar—Residuals, you should come sometime, a lot of us hang out there—and Bill used to go there a lot before his writing career took off. He took a few improv classes, too, but you know, with his stutter, it was… kind of painful to watch, to be honest.” 

Eddie lets out a laugh before he catches himself. “That’s mean.”

“I’m not being mean! We all have our strengths and weaknesses. He focused on the writing, which was a smart move. Considering, you know, the speaking situation.” 

“He’s gotten a lot better,” Eddie says with a smile. “It used to be much worse when we were kids. He would sometimes write stuff down if he couldn’t say it. Or I’d be his translator.” 

“Cute,” Richie deadpans. “Well, do you wanna go back out there and talk to him like a normal human now, or…?”

Eddie laughs and mocks offense. “Shut up.” 

Eddie decides to make an excuse, say a quick goodbye, and get out of here. This is too much. Bill looks sympathetic, if a little confused, and says that they should get dinner sometime soon and Eddie agrees. Yeah, sometime. He waves goodbye to Mike and to the rest of the group, and Richie gives him a particularly meaningful parting nod. 

Then Eddie starts down the tiki-torch-lined driveway, looking like some kind of landing strip. When he glances up to try to remember where he parked, a man steps in front of him.

“Ha! I knew it! I _knew_ it.”

Eddie jumps, startled, before his eyes focus. He's probably not being mugged, but he keeps his grip on his keys. “_Stanley?_” 

He laughs giddily, which is jarring. 

Eddie looks around, as if confirming if anyone else is seeing this. “Uh, what’s up? Do you know—?” 

“It didn’t make sense,” Stan begins with the gravitas of a Bond villain. “With your resume, you move across the country to work for Hanlon? Nuh-uh-uh. So I did some digging—your Facebook is public, by the way, very sloppy. You don’t know anyone in L.A.? What about _Bill Denbrough?_” 

Eddie glances nervously up the driveway, but none of the partygoers are paying attention to them. That worry at ease, he can address the other issue: “Wait, did you follow me here?” 

Stanley doesn’t answer. “So, what’s the story? How do you know him? He’s kinda famous. Not _famous_-famous, but he’s dating Au—” 

Eddie grabs Stan’s arm and yanks him farther along, to the very end of the driveway. “Okay, listen. We were childhood friends. We went to the same summer camp every year, from age eight to, like, fifteen. That’s it. And we were penpals in between, but, anyway, I ran into him last week in New York. I was having a terrible week, and suddenly he was there, and I was like, 'Bill Denbrough?' And he smiled and he was like, ‘Oh, hi, Eddie.’ And he’s like _glowing_, and he says, 'I live in L.A. now and it’s great and I’m so happy,' and I was like, hmm, happy, what’s that like, so I quit my job and I moved out here. And I know that sounds crazy, like I moved here for him, but I didn’t move here for him, he just happens to live here. As do four million other people. Thirteen million if you include the entire metro area. So, I am not crazy.” 

Stan raises his eyebrows. 

“I’m not crazy. No, I’m not crazy.” Eddie’s palms feel clammy all of a sudden and he tries to swallow but his throat won’t work. “Oh my god. Oh my god, I’m crazy. I’m crazy.” 

“No, no.” Stan grabs his arm; his eyes are wide and sympathetic, the smug expression gone. “Stop that, you’re not crazy.” 

Eddie shakes his head rapidly. “My mother was right. And the money, I walked away from so much money. I still have student loans—” 

Stanley claps his hands on either side of Eddie’s face to still him. “No, stop that. You’re not crazy. I think that’s really brave to take a risk like that.” 

Eddie squeaks, “Really?” 

“Sure! I just didn’t like that you lied to me, that’s all.”

Eddie nods, beginning to process how _weird_ this is; he barely knows this guy. Stan’s hands leave his face after a moment and he takes a step back. 

“You know,” Stanley says, back to a conspiratorial tone. “Bill and Audra aren’t public yet, so how serious can it be, really? Plus, I heard that they had a very public on-set fight last week. Trouble in paradise?”

Eddie groans. “No, no, I can’t go down that road. And he’s _straight_, anyway.”

“Is he?” Stan pulls out his phone and within a few seconds is showing him a photo of Bill from maybe ten or so years ago. He has long hair, tucked behind an ear, a gold hoop earring in the lobe. He’s wearing a v-neck sweater, plaid scarf draped over his shoulders. And, okay, he looks…

Eddie shoves the phone back toward Stan. “This doesn’t prove anything. And why do you have this picture anyway?”

“His Facebook. Also public. I scrolled back to 2009.” 

“Jesus Christ.” Eddie can’t help it; he laughs. And Stan laughs, too, after a moment, sheepishly returning his phone to his pocket. “Does everyone stalk their new coworkers out here, or just you?”

“Might just be me,” Stan admits. “The computers at the office don’t have any websites blocked and I get bored.”

“Good to know.” Eddie laughs again. There’s something disarming about Stan’s bluntness, and Eddie’s not in a position to turn away potential allies at the moment. And god, it feels good to drop the act, stop pretending that Eddie's here due to anything resembling a rational decision-making process. So, as they walk toward their cars together, Eddie asks, “How do you like working for Hanlon?”

Stan sighs. “Well. I’ve been there for… eights years now. Mike is too nice to be a good boss, and everyone else is a fucking idiot and I basically get paid to babysit. We’ll have three hour meetings and go in endless circles and never make any decisions. No one else ever cleans the Keurig or puts dry dishes away, so I always have to do it, and…”

Eddie listens to him complain, a small smile growing on his face. He’ll only be earning a fraction of the money he would have made in New York, and this job will certainly have the same headaches as any other, but still he feels like a weight has been lifted; no more expectations, no goals. Or a different set of them. Self-defined, still amorphous, but he’ll figure it out. 

And it’s warm outside, even in the evening and even in late October. That's a minor miracle on its own.

“Stan,” Eddie says, interrupting something about how the office switched to compostable Keurig pods recently in order to be eco-friendly but they taste like shit. “What’s winter like here?”

Stan blinks a few times, shifting gears. “Uh. Like this, pretty much.” He holds his hands up in the air. The night is dry and cooling off, but still comfortable. 

“It doesn’t really get cold ever?”

Stan tilts his head as if confused by the question. “I mean, at night it can get down to the 50s, even 40s sometimes…”

Eddie laughs in disbelief. “That’s not fucking cold.” 

“Okay, New York. Enjoy your superiority complex, I’ll be busy not freezing my ass off.”

Eddie grins. “I’m starting to see why everyone wants to live in Southern California.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh boy do I have very little idea where this is going.. but uhhh join me on whatever this will become. 
> 
> Also this initially was a completely batshit IT/Barry/Crazy Ex Girlfriend crossover/AU (like Barry the hitman was … in this universe and hanging around with Richie at improv class hgjsdak) so I reworked this because jesus christ, but there are still a few hints like, the bar Richie works at is the bar Residuals from Barry, so… for those of you keeping score at home, watch for more Barry references.


	2. Bill's girlfriend is so nice!

A few days later, Eddie and Bill get dinner. They sit at a high top near the bar and Bill orientates Eddie to the tap list. But it doesn’t seem he has much of anything to say about the local brews, beyond explaining the difference between a pale ale and a porter. 

“All craft beer is kind of the same,” Eddie says.

Bill shrugs, not buying it. “Well…”

“No, really, how many variations can you have on an IPA? And they have two hazy’s on tap? That’s overkill. Have you tried both of these?”

Bill claims that they’re different, so of course Eddie orders them both and sets up a blind taste test. Bill sips one, considering. Then the other. Then he cracks a grin and goes back to the first.

Eddie’s laughing. “They’re the same. They’re totally the same.”

“No, no, I’m thinking…” He goes back and forth a few more times, putting quite a dent in each of them.

“Now you’re just hogging the beer.”

“This one’s the Sierra Nevada,” Bill declares, lifting one of the glasses.

He’s right.

“You fucker,” Eddie mutters, taking the other glass.

“Ha!” Bill grins. “I told you I can tell them apart.”

“Lucky guess.” 

They order a couple plates of tacos to share—one fish, one barbacoa—and another round of drinks to go with it. The conversations turns, slows, as they focus on eating, heads bent over their plates. There’s an easy comfort between them, a familiarity; if they venture out too far, they circle back to their childhood, a shared touchstone. Bill is mostly present and attentive, leaning forward, and nodding along to whatever Eddie says. But his phone is face-up on the table and once in a while, he gets distracted, tapping out a quick text, or reading something, and then apologizes for it. Eddie insists it’s fine; Bill must be busy. 

At one point, Eddie asks, “Remember that one year when you wrote and directed a whole play?”

Bill’s eyes flash with recollection. “Oh, yeah. I was so bossy.” 

“You got so frustrated when no one remembered their lines.” 

“I barely remember what it was about.” 

“Is that what you’re like on your movie set?”

Bill laughs. “It’s a miniseries, actually,” he corrects, false-arrogance in his tone. 

“Oh, of course. How dare I?”

“And, no, I’m not in charge of shit over there. The way it should be. They’ll run sst-st- things by me, but I’m just one of many voices.”

“They’re changing the ending, right?”

“No, they’re keeping it exactly the same. Everyone loves it.” For a moment, Eddie almost buys it; but then Bill’s deadpan expression slips. “Fuck off, of course they’re changing it.” 

Eddie laughs again; he read _Black Rapids_ in two days—he’s a fast reader, and the cross-country flight helped—and he doesn’t even think Bill’s ending is that bad. But it’s fun to tease him. 

After consulting with his phone for a few more seconds, Bill locks the screen again and looks up. “So, can I finally hear about your big new job?”

“Uh, yeah.” Eddie smiles nervously, moves his hands from the table to his lap and back again. “So, it was only a few hours after we saw each other in New York—”

“Crazy,” Bill says, smiling wide.

“Yeah. And, well, it was Mike Hanlon, offering me the job. It’s my specialty, real estate law. And he wanted me to start right away, you know, said they would cover my relocation costs, even—”

“Wow.”

“And I was at a dead-end in New York, really,” Eddie says, really picking up the lie-momentum now. “Working so hard for so long with no real chance for advancement. And it’s silly, but I thought, I saw you, you said you lived in L.A. Same day, I get a job offer in L.A. What else do I need to make a change, a fucking billboard?”

“It’s fate, Ed.” Bill lifts his glass to clink Eddie’s. “Congratulations. I’m really glad you’re here.”

Eddie’s face heats and his stomach flips, but in a pleasant way. He nearly blurts, _I missed you_, but decides that’s a bit much. And is it even true? When was the last time he thought about Bill Denbrough before he saw him again in New York? It had been a few years, at least. But somehow that persistent ache he felt after each summer—and more strongly for his last years of high school, when the letters petered out and then stopped—returned. Did he forget that he missed him? Is that even possible?

While Eddie ponders the right way to say something like, _I’m glad you’re in my life again_, Bill picks up his phone. “Oh, Audra’s almost here.”

_What._

“What? Um.” Eddie’s back stiffens; he feels like he’s been doused with cold water. “Audra’s coming?”

“Yeah, she’s stopping by on her way home.” 

“Oh. That’s nice.”

And so she does, a few minutes later. She gives a warm smile to Eddie and Bill gives her his chair and the rest of his drink, and stands beside the high top table, in between her and Eddie. Audra and Bill talk shop for a bit, throwing around names that mean nothing to Eddie. Eddie sips his own drink, trying to decide how much he should appear to be paying attention.

“Matt always does this,” Audra is saying. “He’s like, ‘Don’t worry about what the contract says, that’s my job. You just have to sign it!’”

Bill rolls his eyes. “As if he knows what it says. I keep saying, you’re getting too big for him.”

“Yeah, fine, I’ll get a new agent, but I need to make a decision about this by Friday.” 

Eddie says, “Do you just want someone to walk you through the legal mumbo-jumbo?” He falters slightly as both sets of eyes fall on him, looking like they almost forgot he was there. “I could help with that.”

“Really?” Audra looks doubtful; not that he could help, but that he’d want to. 

“Yeah, sure. I mean, I’m a lawyer. Harvard and Yale.” Eddie pauses, realizing how that sounded. “That wasn’t a brag, that was a joke.”

“So, you didn’t go to Harvard?”

“No, I did. And Yale. Anyway, anyway, let me help.”

“What’s your hourly fee, like three hundred?” Audra asks coyly. 

Eddie waves his hands dismissively. “No, no, it’s a favor for a friend.” 

Now she smiles genuinely. “Okay. That’d be great.” She takes out her phone and hands it to Eddie to enter his phone number. 

As he does, Bill punches his arm. “Thanks, man. That’s really nice of you to help.”

It actually kind of hurts, but Eddie doesn’t let on. It’s familiar; Bill used to play up the macho act around girls when they were kids, too. 

A few minutes later, they leave. Bill pays the bill, a ‘welcome to town’ gift—“You can get the next one, Ed.”—and they part ways on the sidewalk outside. Bill and Audra get in a cab going in one direction, and Eddie heads in the opposite, toward his car.

+

By mid-morning the next day, Eddie gets a text from Audra. She sends the contract over, asks if he can meet up the following night to go over it, and says, _Thanks so much!!!_ followed by a string of heart emojis. Eddie opens the PDF, sees the page count, and sighs. Maybe he should have asked for some kind of compensation. But whatever; it’s not like he has much else going on. 

Eddie leans over toward Stanley, who’s squinting at his computer screen, the usual displeased expression on his face, and says, “Guess what?”

Stan turns fully away from his computer as if he was waiting for a distraction. “What?”

“So, I agreed to check out some contract for Audra—it’s for some big feature, but she’s not telling me what it is, but anyway—now we’re hanging out tomorrow night. And she’s sending me, like…”

He looks at his phone again. Eddie said yes, tomorrow night works, where should he meet her? And she said, _My apartment’s fine, it’ll be casual_, followed by wine glass emojis. 

Eddie shows it to Stan. “Like, look at this.”

“Ooh, girls’ night,” Stan quips, before his expression turns more serious. “This is good. Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer.”

Eddie scoffs. “Audra is not my enemy, that’s ridiculous. She’s my friend’s girlfriend. And she could be my friend, too. I need more friends out here. And she seems… cool.”

Stan does not look impressed. “She seems… cool? Your willingness to help her has nothing to do with the fact that she’s dating Bill?”

“Yeah!” The pitch of Eddie’s voice turns up in a way that’s incriminating. Stan just smirks. “Shut up! I can help people without an ulterior motive. I’m a nice person.” 

Stan looks unconvinced. “Great. Now get back to figuring out how our rich client can avoid paying property taxes.” 

+

Eddie has texted Richie a few times since the Incident. (It’s capitalized, when Eddie thinks about it.) Or, rather, Richie has texted Eddie, and Eddie has replied. He’s a little embarrassed, on account of having had a gay panic attack in front of a total stranger, but Richie seems unaware that any boundary has been crossed. He’ll text Eddie about some weird patron at Residuals, and then ask Eddie when he’s gonna come to Residuals. 

So, Eddie relents. That night, a Wednesday, he goes to Residuals after work. At first he notices the pulsing music and the purplish flashing light, and _oh shit_, this bar has a dance floor. Bars with dance floors should come with some kind of special warning in his opinion. He makes his way inside. The walls in here are plastered with paychecks, minuscule ones, too embarrassing to ever be deposited: three cents here, fifteen cents there. The bar’s namesake, no doubt. There are headshots pinned up, too. Put up some lines of string and it would look like an eccentric detective’s office, Eddie thinks. Soon he spots Richie at the bar. 

He’s making a drink, pouring four bottles at once over ice, at a height of at least six inches above the glass. It looks ridiculous. As he works, he chats with a few people at the bar; Eddie recognizes Ben and Bev. Richie isn’t wearing his glasses, but Eddie notices that Bev is. 

When Eddie slides up to the barstool beside Ben, he says, “Hey, guys.” Ben and Bev both say, “Hey, Eddie!”

Richie squints at him, leaning close. “Who is that? Is that Eddie?” 

Eddie waves him away. “Why aren’t you wearing your glasses? Don’t you have a corrective lenses restriction on your bartending license?”

Richie laughs hard, first doubling over then rearing back and clapping his hands. “Eddie gets off a good one!” A few other patrons look down the bar toward them, curiously, and Eddie’s face burns. 

“We wanted to see if he could make drinks without them,” Bev explains, still wearing his glasses. They look cute on her, dwarfing her delicate features. 

“It’s all in the feel, baby,” Richie says with a wink. He places a lemon slice on the rim and sets the glass in front of Bev. “One long island, ma’am.” 

She slides it toward Eddie. “For you.”

“Oh, you’re getting me fucked up right out of the gate.” But he picks it up and takes a few long gulps like a champ. 

Richie grabs his glasses back off of Bev’s face, and says, “No, I missed it, do it again!” And Eddie does; by the time he’s done, half his drink is gone and the pit of his stomach feels quite warm. Then Richie is called away to the other end of the bar and he stalks over there, shouting, “What do you need now? Another fucking drink?” in an act that’s clearly a bit for the amusement of regulars. 

In his absence, Eddie’s eye lands on a framed portrait on the wall behind the bar. A framed portrait of Bill. 

“Wait, is that—?”

Bev rolls her eyes. “Yeah, he’s one that ‘made it,’ right?” 

“I think Richie uses it for dart practice,” Ben says, and Bev laughs, dropping her head to the bar for a moment. 

Eddie talks to the two of them while he finishes his drink and Richie floats in and out, interjecting a comment when he gets a chance. He learns that Bev has been moderately successful booking acting work—“A lot of moms and wives and secretaries,” she says—enough so that she could quit her day job, but she still takes a few nannying gigs here and there, in addition to dog-walking. He learns that Ben, a sales associate at Lululemon, apparently, has been getting some commercials lately.

“Show him the one,” Bev says. Ben groans but he takes his phone out of his pocket.

The ad is for deodorant. Over the loud thrum of the bar’s music, Eddie can’t hear anything Ben is saying, but he’s standing there in the on-screen void, shirtless, all lean muscles and tan skin. Then there’s a close up of the deodorant running over his abs, leaving no gunky white smear behind. Just a translucent sheen.

Bev cracks up, burying her face against Ben’s shoulder.

“Nice work, but I’m not sure that’s what you’re supposed to with deodorant,” Eddie says, and Bev just laughs harder. 

He learns that Richie is a stand-up comedian. His success in that is probably evident from the fact that he’s still working full time at this bar and has been for years. 

“How do you both work nights at a bar and also do stand-up?” Eddie asks him, when he’s over on their end again, making a few lemon drop shots. “Like, are you doing matinees?” 

“Yeah, down at the Thousand Oaks senior living center. The grannies love me. No, I have two or three days off a week. I just do stuff then.” Richie offers one of the shots. “You want one? On the house.”

At this point, he’s going to have to abandon his car and take an Uber home. And he has work in the morning. But… “Yeah, thanks.” Eddie throws it back and shudders, but it’s not too bad. “I’d like to—” he starts.

“Be right back,” Richie interrupts, as he carries the rest of the shots to a group of young women on the other end of the bar.

Now Eddie’s alone. Bev dragged Ben out to the dance floor ten minutes ago. He glances over to them; they’re jumping around, Bev twirling, her loose top flowing around her. She grabs Ben’s wrist then, swings his arm in a wide arc. He throws his head back, laughing. It’s goofy, youthful; it reminds Eddie of kids dancing at homecoming. (Not that he ever went to a homecoming dance, but, you know, he’s seen movies.)

Eddie startles at a sudden thudding sound and spins back around. Richie is back in front of him, palms flat on the bar, smiling guiltily. “Sorry. What were you saying?”

“Oh, yeah.” Eddie blinks a few times to get back on track. “I’d like to see your comedy sometime. Let me know when you have a show.” 

Richie smiles, genuine, if a bit surprised. “I have to pay most of my friends to be audience plants and you’re just volunteering.” 

“Eh.” Eddie gestures to the empty glasses in front of him—at least thirty dollars worth of free drinks. “It’s returning a favor.” 

Richie clears the empty glasses now, and when he turns back around, his face is more serious, maybe even nervous. “Hey, Eddie, uh. Not to do this when you’re drunk, but also maybe I am doing this when you’re drunk on purpose, but uh.”

Eddie freezes. He _is_ drunk, his mind swimming slowly through the words that Richie just said, and barely processing them before Richie continues.

“Do you wanna go out sometime? I feel like we’ve been hitting it off.”

Eddie runs the words over in his head a few times. It’s like he knows the meaning of ‘go out’ but he can’t quite square it with who he is and with who Richie is. 

While Eddie thinks, some guy down the bar yells, “Hey, Rich!” and Richie yells back, without so much as a glance in his direction, “Give me a second!”

“Uh,” Eddie says now.

“Take your time,” Richie says, giving what looks like a forced smile. “Should I go and come back?” 

“No, no.” Eddie shakes his head. “I guess I thought maybe you were dating Bev?” 

Richie snorts a laugh. “No. No, dude. I thought I made it pretty clear I was gay when we met? As did you? The mutual crush on Bill Denbrough? Does that ring a bell? That’s just one of many things we have in common. Maybe we can get coffee and… talk about that.”

“Any day now, Rich!” yells the same guy from down the bar. This time Richie does turn around and yells back, “Make your own goddamn drink! Why do I have to do everything around here?” 

Eddie’s laughing when Richie turns back to face him. “Does that kind of service get you good tips?” 

“It’s part of the atmosphere,” Richie says. “Now, can you please say something so I can go take care of these babies?” 

Eddie nods. “Uh. Yeah. I appreciate it, but…”

Richie’s face falls. “Okay, okay. Fair enough.”

“No, let me…” Eddie’s kind of glad Richie did this while he was drunk, too. It feels easier to explain where he’s coming from, to be more candid. “It’s not a ‘no’ so much as a ‘not right now.’ I feel like I have a lot on my plate right now, and I probably just need… friends.” 

Richie has started to back away toward his disgruntled customers, nodding rapidly. “Yeah, gotcha. No worries.”

“It’s not that I’m not interested!” Eddie calls after him, too loudly, and a few eyes land on him. But he ignores it.

Richie’s face breaks into a lopsided grin. “You can stop now. But thanks.” 

Ben and Bev return to the bar shortly after that and reach over to pour themselves glasses of water; Eddie takes one, too. He doesn’t say anything about what just happened and neither does Richie. They’re about to head out, and ask if he wants to share an Uber. 

“Oh, I drove here,” Eddie says. He feels like he’s sobering up fast.

But Bev slaps her hands down on both his shoulders and looks at him with a grave expression. “No, you can’t drive. Recite the alphabet backwards.” 

“Um. Z Y X W,” Eddie begins. He actually can recite the alphabet backwards, and he’s ninety percent sure he can do it right now, but Ben interrupts. 

“No one can recite the alphabet backwards,” he says. “Here, do this.” Ben touches a finger to his nose and extends his arm out straight, then bends it back to touch his nose again. He repeats this a few more times and Eddie starts doing it too, not sure what it’s supposed to prove. 

“No, no, walk a straight line,” Bev says, manhandling Eddie until he stands up from the bar stool. They both begin to walk an imaginary tight rope, placing one foot in front of the other. Neither of them have great balance, but the fact that they’re laughing might explain it. 

“Can you guys get out of my bar?” Richie says then, hands on his hips. “I don’t care where you go, but you can’t stay here.”

After a beat, both Ben and Bev throw their heads back and start crooning, “_I know who I want to take me home!_” 

In the end, Eddie doesn’t drive home. But he gets his own Uber. He doesn’t live near Ben or Bev. He stops by his car and re-parks it so he won’t risk getting a ticket overnight. He’ll wake up early and Uber back to his car before driving to work. He’ll probably hate himself for it tomorrow, but for now he feels pretty good, smiling to himself as he looks out the window on the drive home. 

When he’s settling in for bed, drinking as much water as he can in an effort to stave off tomorrow’s hangover, his phone pings. A text from Richie.

_Hope I didn’t make things weird. Friends works for me! I have a show next week Tuesday if you want to come._

Eddie smiles and texts back. _Not weird at all. And I’ll be there!_

+

The next morning, he doesn’t feel great. His eyelids seem sticky and his sinuses congested, but after a shower and breakfast and coffee, he’s feeling much better. Then he takes an Uber back to his car—the windshield is ticket-free—and drives to work. He’s at his desk eight minutes late, but no one gives him a second look as he slides into his chair. 

Except for Stanley, of course. “You’re late. And you look terrible. Are you hungover?” 

Eddie waggles a hand, a nonverbal answer. _A little._

Stan leans in closer and rattles off a series of questions in a low voice. “Where were you? Who were you with? Were you with Bill?”

Eddie rubs his temples. “I’m gonna go make some tea.”

Over lunch, Eddie speed-reads Audra’s contract. Stan sits across from him at the table in the kitchenette, looking at his own phone, but otherwise silent, as they eat their single-serve microwave meals. Mike wanders by at some point to get more coffee, then spends fifteen minutes telling them about how he’s remodeling his bathroom. Eddie gets that lost time back by reading the rest of the contract while he’s supposed to be working. 

After work, he goes to Audra’s apartment. It’s basically what he expected; sleek furniture, large windows, a spacious kitchen. Eddie notes again the negative correlation between a person’s income and the amount of stuff in their house. There are luxuriously barren surfaces everywhere; a shelf in the corner of the living room only holds a few books and a framed photo. 

She welcomes him with a hug and he barely gets a word in edgewise as she tells him where to leave his shoes and leads him into the kitchen and pours him a glass of wine and tells him about her friend who only drinks the really fine stuff, but she can’t tell the difference, personally. 

Eddie battles the slight post-hangover alcohol aversion; after one sip, it fades fast. 

They end up sitting on the leather couch in the living room, wine glasses in their hands and the bottle on the coffee table in front of them. Eddie walks her through the contract—he printed two copies at work, on the firm’s dime—and she follows along, nods, circles thing, makes notes in the margin. 

When he’s done, it’s been about an hour. Audra asks a few questions, he answers them, then thinks they’re probably wrapping up. But then she refills his wine glass and settles back on the couch again. “Thanks so much for your help, Eddie. You’re so totally un-condescending, which is nice.”

“Oh.” Eddie’s face warms under the praise. “Thanks. You know, I didn’t realize how complicated starring in a movie could be. The non-disclosure section alone is three pages?” 

Audra rolls her eyes. “Oh, tell me about it.”

Then Audra asks him a question about his childhood, what Bill was like as a kid, and he tells her how much worse his stutter was, how bossy he used to be—“Used to be?” she repeats with a smirk—how he would always stand up for himself or others who were being picked on. Even if it would have been wiser to keep his mouth shut. 

And he tells her about what happened when they were thirteen. He hasn’t thought about in a while, but afterward, whenever he thought about Bill, it was always top of mind. Bill’s little brother died and it was sudden and tragic, and Eddie tried to shoulder some of the burden from afar. They kept writing letters and talked on the phone; Bill still went to camp that summer, said his parents probably wanted him out of the house for a while. Later, Bill told him that he wouldn’t have gotten through it without him. Eddie still feels like he didn’t deserve that much credit.

As he tells Audra about it, his eyes begin to burn and his voice wavers. “I’m sorry,” he says, scrubbing at his face. “I didn’t even know Georgie, you know, I never met him.”

She leans toward him, a hand on his arm. Her eyes are shiny, too. “No, no, it’s okay. That must have been really hard for you, too.” 

He nods and blinks back the tears; then lets out a laugh at the situation. “You invite me into your home and now I’m crying on your couch.” 

She pulls him into a hug and rubs his back. “That’s the basis of any good friendship.” 

After that, they lighten up. They talk and laugh and Audra tells him her best celebrity gossip and makes him swear not to tell. (He’s definitely going to tell Stanley, though. He’ll shit himself.) 

And that’s how, when Bill unlocks the door at half past eight, Audra is laying back on the couch with her feet in Eddie’s lap and they’re both near tears again, but this time from laughter.

Bill hovers near the entryway. “Hey. Uh. How’s the meeting going?” He laughs nervously. 

“Amazing. He’s a genius.” Audra reaches to grab Eddie’s hand. “Eddie, will you quit your job and be my agent?”

Eddie seriously considers it for a second. “How much do you pay?”

She just laughs again, but it was an actual question. Then Eddie notices the awkward way that Bill’s looking at them and realizes that it’s sort of weird to be sprawled out on a couch with his friend’s girlfriend. So, he gets out from under Audra’s feet and stands up. 

“I should get going.”

“Let me walk you out,” Bill says, still in his shoes. 

“Uh, sure. Have a good night, Audra.”

“You, too, Eddie! Thanks, again!”

Bill’s quiet until they’re out on the street. Eddie considers breaking the silence to say, _Just so you know, I’m not trying to steal your girl_, but the whole notion seems so absurd to him that he can’t fathom Bill actually being concerned about it. 

Then Bill says, “So, you and Audra hit it off.”

And Eddie blurts, “I’m gay.”

Oh, great. No tact whatsoever. 

Bill’s eyes go wide for a second, and Eddie hurries to say, “I mean, like. I know it must have looked a little weird, when you walked in, so I just wanted to tell you that. It was one-hundred percent above-board. I have absolutely no… intentions. Not that I could steal her away if I wanted to, you’re, like, the ideal boyfriend.”

_Oh, goddamn it._

Bill blinks. “You’re gay?”

Eddie blinks. “Yes?”

Before Eddie can realize what’s happening, Bill pulls him into a hug. It’s not a short hug, either. Bill rests a hand on the back of his neck. “Thanks for telling me, man.”

“Uh.” Eddie squirms a bit until Bill pulls back. “Yeah, uh. Probably should have told you under better circumstances.” 

“How long have you known? Since we were kids?”

_Ah._ Eddie tries not to look too flighty as he considers his answer. They’re steering dangerously close to ‘I was in love with you our entire childhood’ territory now. “Um. Yeah? I guess I was aware of it by the time I was thirteen or fourteen, and then looking back, it was like… Oh, that explains a lot. You know?”

Bill nods solemnly. “You could have talked to me about it. Back then.”

God, Eddie hates this conversation so much. He glances longingly toward his car, parked halfway down the block, and laughs. “Well. It was fucking scary.” Before Bill can hug him again, or even say anything else, Eddie fishes his keys out of his pocket. “I have to go.”

“Okay. Have a good night.” Bill gives him another sad, affectionate smile—which makes Eddie want to punch a wall—before he turns and walks back toward Audra’s apartment. 

When he’s back in his car, Eddie calls Stanley. He’s not even sure why, but he needs to talk to someone. Stan picks up, not sounding too surprised to hear from him.

“God, Stan,” Eddie begins. “That fucking sucked.”

There’s a beat of silence before Stan asks, “How’s Audra?"

“Oh, she’s great, actually, we got on really well, but _too_ well…” He tells him what happened, how awkward it was when Bill came home, how he walked him out to his car, how Eddie blurted out that he’s gay.

“Holy shit.”

“Yeah. And then, god, he’s so great sometimes. I hate it. Like, he gives me this hug and says I could talk to him…”

“That bodes well.”

“No, no, it doesn’t,” Eddie says. “It was, like, the straightest response to coming out I’ve ever seen. If I didn’t know before, I know now. He’s painfully straight.” He almost smiles as he borrows Richie’s turn of phrase.

Stan asks, “Is he?”

“Yeah, he is,” Eddie snaps. “And what’s your horse in this race, anyway? It’s fucking weird, man.”

Stan is quiet for a few seconds, long enough for Eddie to regret it. Then all he says is, “You called me, Eddie.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry,” Eddie says quietly, his face burning. “I’m just stressed out. I have to stop thinking that anything could happen, it’s gonna drive me crazy.”

“Okay, then you probably need to put some distance between you and him.” 

It’s sound advice, delivered calmly. Eddie considers it for a moment. Then he says, “No, no, that’d be weird. We can just be friends. I can be normal about this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Famous last words...
> 
> I'm enjoying writing this so much... and I'm so glad that a few of you are into the concept so far! Let me know your thoughts!


	3. Going to the beach with Bill and friends!

On Tuesday night, Eddie is at a comedy club, sitting at a round table with Ben and Bev and drinking again. He’s going to have to cut back on the weeknight drinking at some point, he realizes; it’s getting a little out of hand. 

Richie is opening for another comedian; he stands on the small stage, leaning on the microphone stand with one hand and holding the microphone with the other. He’s wearing dark jeans and two layers of shirts with clashing patterns. His voice is kind of nasally when he performs and his face looks shiny under the lights, but he seems remarkably comfortable up there. The crowd isn’t huge though; there are probably thirty people in attendance, sitting around tables or standing in the back by the bar.

“So, I’m a bartender,” Richie says, once he’s done with a bit of opening crowd-work. “Which, I know, plot twist, because you all thought that this was my full-time job, right? I mean, the stand-up, it pays the bills, but what I really want to do is make Cosmos for people who don’t tip. I’m a bartender, but I don’t drink.” Richie takes a long pause, letting the audience’s silence build in tension for a second. Then he adds, “Anymore.”

The audience chuckles with a bit of relief, and Richie says, “Yeah. That’s the kicker. People are confused for a second, then I drop the ‘anymore’ and it suddenly makes a lot of sense, right? People say to me, isn’t that hard for you? To be around alcohol all day and be sober? And let me tell you, there’s nothing that will make you want to give up drinking faster than to spend forty hours a week serving sad, alcoholic, failed actors. Guys will come in to celebrate getting cast as a dead body on CSI. I’ve seen that happen. It’s fucking depressing. I’m going to AA _for_ that guy.”

Richie’s humor is sardonic, self-deprecating; the laughs are surprising and dark, and once or twice Eddie barks a laugh too loudly, and feels like he’s exposed himself. And he learns some things about Richie that he didn’t know before. He grew up in the midwest—Minnesota—and moved to L.A. in his late twenties. He talks about his childhood and when he decided to move: 

“It was early November, so it was that time of year when Minnesotans start darkly joking about winter. You know, you get the first snow, and all your coworkers are like, haha, I’m gonna kill myself.” He pantomimes blowing his brains out, a goofy grin on his face. Then his expression drops back to deadpan so quickly that it’s jarring, and that alone stirs up a few surprised laughs. “And I realized, I don’t have to live this way. Midwesterners are proud, they get off on suffering, and, yeah, I mean, I’ll put up with a lot of shit to earn the right to complain, but at a certain point… it’s just not worth it. Have you ever walked outside and felt your nose hairs freeze? Show of hands.”

Eddie, New England born-and-raised, throws his arm up. A few others follow, but he’s not in good company. Ben mutters in disgust next to him: “Your nose hairs? _Freeze?_” 

Richie gestures to Eddie as if this proves his point. “Yeah. Well. Wouldn’t you rather have your fingernails pulled out one by one?” 

Richie’s set lasts twenty minutes. He takes a little bow at the end, thanks the audience, and disappears backstage. There’s a short break before the next comic’s turn—the house lights turn up slightly and a hum rises as everyone starts chatting. 

“He says the thing about the CSI guy every time,” Bev says. “I took an acting class with that guy. His name is Antonio and he’s actually really nice.” 

Before she can say much more, Richie is sneaking up behind her and jabs her sides, causing her to shriek. She apologizes, red-faced, to the people who turned to glare at her, and then elbows Richie’s gut. “You asshole.”

“Hey, great show, man,” Eddie says as Richie grabs an unoccupied stool to sit with them. 

“Aw, thanks,” Richie says dryly. 

“Really. I think you have great… stage presence.” Eddie feels like he’s out of his depth trying to give specific compliments, but he keeps going. “You seem really comfortable up there. Not nervous at all.” 

Richie shrugs. “Yeah, well, I’m dead inside, so.” 

Bev reaches across the table to flick his cheek. “Take a compliment, Richard.” 

Richie bats her hand away. “Okay, thank you, Eddie. Thanks for coming.” He flashes a sincere smile, but it’s gone just as quickly. “When do I get to come watch you do your job now? Answer the phone, send emails? Uh, use the photocopier?” 

Eddie laughs. “Do you think I’m a secretary?” 

“Yeah, and you’d be an awfully cute one.” 

Eddie laughs again, self-consciously, and Richie winces. “That probably hits different after I asked you on a date. Ignore me.” 

Ben and Bev simultaneously choke on their drinks. “After you _what?_” Bev turns to Eddie, her eyes wild and almost threatening. “Eddie, you said no? _Why?_ Richie’s such a great guy!” 

Eddie smiles nervously and throws a glance at Richie who pinches his eyes shut and mouths, _I’m sorry_. But before he can say anything, the lights dim again and the next comedian is walking out on stage.

And his set is an hour long. It’s probably pretty good—the rest of the audience is laughing a lot—but Eddie mostly sits in silence next to Richie, who’s also unusually still and quiet. 

Afterward, Eddie and Richie end up alone outside, both waiting for their Ubers. A few passersby compliment Richie on his show and he thanks them but quickly closes the door to any kind of deeper conversation. Once the crowd clears a bit, Richie stands there with his hands in his pockets, kicking at a cigarette butt on the pavement. Then he says, “I swear I didn’t do that on purpose. I’ll make sure Bev doesn’t harass you too much.” 

Eddie smiles. “It’s fine.” He means it, too. 

“She thinks she’s this great wingman, but she just scares away any potential boyfriends.”

“What are friends for?” 

Richie’s car pulls up and he takes a few steps toward it. “Thanks again, Eds. Have a good night.” 

Eddie smiles and wishes him the same. Eds, he notes, as Richie’s car pulls away from the curb. It’s an affectionate nickname. His dad used to call him that, before he died. Eddie calls himself that sometimes, when he needs a pep talk. His mom always went for ‘Eddie-Bear,’ still does, despite the fact that he’s in his thirties and it’s humiliating. 

He likes Eds. And he likes that Richie just decided to call him that, apropos of nothing. He’s still smiling to himself by the time his Uber pulls up. 

+

Later that week, after a successful client meeting, Eddie grabs lunch with Stan. It’s a Korean restaurant with a jungle of plants in the window and a flat screen TV playing a game show in the corner, the volume turned up loud enough to be distracting. 

“Do you think Mike will pay for this if I submit my receipt?” Stan asks as they look over their menus. 

“Can’t hurt to try.” After they’re served waters and place their orders, Eddie tells him about his plans for the upcoming weekend. He’s planning a beach trip with Bill and Audra and some of their friends. Which means probably Richie and Bev and Ben. “I haven’t been to the ocean yet since I moved here, isn’t that crazy?”

Stan shrugged. “I mean, it’s like two hours from here.”

“Isn’t it more like forty minutes?” 

“Traffic, Eddie.”

“Oh.” Eddie frowns. This puts a wrench in his plans. He tries to get beach recommendations from Stan, but he just keeps saying the beach is ‘overrated.’ When their meals and banchan are placed before them, Eddie realizes he’s been dominating the conversation again. “Stan, what’s going on in your life? I feel like we’re always talking about me.” 

Stan looks genuinely surprised by the question. He sits back and thinks for a minute. “Well. I’m thinking about law school.”

“That’s great!” Eddie says. “You should do it!”

“Yeah. I’ve been studying for the LSAT on and off for like four years now.” Stan seems less than enthused. “So I should probably just buck up and take it already. And, well, my wife and I have been trying to have kids for a while with no luck, so now we’re thinking about IVF, which means I have to start making a lot more money…”

Eddie blinks a few times. “You’re married?”

Stan’s brow furrows as he holds up a hand, the gold band gleaming on his ring finger. “Uh. Yeah.”

Eddie stares, slack-jawed. “Do you always wear that?”

“Yeah.” Stan leans forward. “Eddie, I have a framed picture on my desk of Patty and I on our wedding day.”

Eddie thinks about it, but he’s never seen it. “Oh.” 

Stan sighs. “You know you’re kinda self-centered, yeah? You should maybe work on… noticing things about other people. Asking questions…” 

Eddie nods, still too caught off guard to do much else. Then he shakes his head, re-focuses on the conversation, and says, “Have you considered adoption?” Stan wrinkles his nose in distaste and Eddie bursts into shocked laughter. “Dude…” 

“Sorry, sorry, you’re right, it’s an… option.” 

Eddie adds more sauce to his bibimbap and asks, “What does Patty do?” 

“She’s a physician.” 

“Oh, so you’re the trophy husband.”

Stan smiles wider than he usually does. “Yeah. I’m the pretty one.” 

“I’d like to meet Patty sometime.”

Stan wrinkles his nose again. 

“What? What’s wrong with me?” Eddie demands, aiming his chopsticks at him. “I’m not a ‘bring home to meet the wife’ kind of guy?” 

“That is not a phrase.” 

“Have me over for dinner sometime! I’m a fucking delight!” 

“Shut up, Eddie,” Stan says, but he’s smiling. 

+

Eddie knows it’s a risk when the large dark-windowed bus pulls up on his street. The banner on the side reads ‘Party on this bus!’ above the phone number. Both are rendered almost illegible by the font choice. It’s a risk, but hey, if they’re going to be sitting in traffic for a few hours, round-trip, they might as well enjoy it, right? 

While he waits nervously for everyone to show up, he loads the bus with two coolers of drinks and a bag of snacks and extra towels and sunscreen. Then he stands outside and looks at his phone. He told everyone to meet him at ten and it’s ten, on the dot. 

From behind him, he hears, “Holy _shit_, Eds.” 

Eddie turns to see Richie, staring at the bus with a kind of awe and glee. He’s wearing a Hawaiian shirt and swim trunks that are Hawaiian-patterned as well; they clash with the shirt in a way that almost works. He’s wearing his glasses, but has sunglasses perched on his head, and a towel slung over his shoulder. 

“Richie—” Eddie begins.

“There are two ways I see this going down,” he interrupts, holding up two fingers. “Either I’m about to check ‘orgy’ off my bucket list, or I’m about to be killed and left in a shallow grave in the desert.”

Eddie frowns. “Is it too much?” 

“Yeah, it’s definitely too much.” 

“Oh, goddamn it.” Eddie wonders if he should just eat the cancellation fee and call them all Ubers. He might have a few minutes for damage control before the rest of the group shows up. 

“No, no, in a good way,” Richie says, patting Eddie’s shoulder. “You know, people can either be crazy and fun, or crazy and scary. And this is like, right on the line between the two, which is the best of all.” 

Eddie groans. “You’re not making me feel any better.” 

When Bill and Audra show up, Bill just says, “Oh, great idea, Eddie,” and climbs aboard. Eddie can feel Richie looking at him, but pointedly doesn’t meet his eye. Bev arrives next and she says, “Oh. This is so tacky, I love it,” to which Richie replies, “I know, right?!” Finally, Ben arrives—with Mike.

“Hope it’s okay I invited him,” Ben says, then, “Oh, there’s a… stripper pole? On the bus? Okay.” He chuckles with an undercurrent of discomfort. “Poledancing competition.” 

Eddie smiles tightly and turns to Mike. “Yeah, of course. Great to have you along, Mike!” 

Once everyone’s on board and they pull onto the freeway and into immediate traffic, Eddie shows them his coolers and snacks. “So, I got… beer, wine coolers. These frozen daiquiri things. And, uh—” He opens the other cooler. “Richie, I have some sodas and sparkling water, too.”

Richie raises his eyebrows. “Cool. Thanks for like, singling me out with that.” 

“Well, I’m just— I know you don’t drink…”

“I’m kidding. Thanks, dude.” 

They all sit back on the vinyl seats on either side of the bus and then just look at each other awkwardly for a beat. Then Bill reaches to grab a beer and everyone else follows suit. He settles back in with an arm around Audra. She’s wearing a floppy hat and a sundress, huge dark sunglasses. Bev says she loves the hat and Richie says, “Yeah, well, she can’t be seen out in public with us. She has a career to think about.” Audra laughs in a way that says he might not be far off. 

Eddie announces that this is his first beach trip since he moved here—“and, well, first time to the Pacific Ocean at all,”—and the rest of the bus toast in his honor. Then Ben and Bev discover the aux cord hookup and start creating a playlist together, which involves more than a little excited yelling. Richie and Bill roll their eyes at each other. Bill says, “Remember the rule. At least fifty percent of the playlist must be something other than New Kids on the Block.” And Richie says, “Is that really where we left off on the negotiations? We gave up at fifty percent?” 

Mike, sitting next to Eddie, says, “I’m surprised Stanley isn’t here. It seems like you two have really hit it off.”

Eddie smiles. “Yeah, he said the beach is ‘overrated.’” 

Mike rolls his eyes fondly. “I don’t think he likes sand.” 

Speaking of… Eddie pulls out his phone to send off a quick text: _MIKE IS HERE_. Stan replies within seconds: _LOL WHAT_

Bill and Richie seem to be doing some kind of bit with each other now, taking loud, slurpy sips of their drinks and throwing out sommelier terms: “Crisp mouthfeel. Citrus aroma,” Richie says of his lemon La Croix. “Slight notes of aluminum on the finish.” 

When Bill starts describing the body of his Pilsner, Audra extricates herself from between them with a laugh and leans forward toward Eddie. “So. I took the job.”

“Oh, my god! Congrats!” Eddie squeezes her hand. “Can you tell me what the movie is now…?” 

She nods and leans in to whisper in his ear: “Live-action _Frozen_.”

Eddie just blinks, not sure he heard right. Then Richie says loudly, “They’re already making a live-action _Frozen_? Didn’t that movie just come out?” 

Audra slaps a hand over her mouth. “You can’t tell anyone! Swear not to tell!” 

“Yeah, yeah, no problem.” Richie spits in his hand and holds it out to her. She makes no move to return the gesture. “What? What, you want a blood oath instead?” 

“It’s in, like pre-pre-_pre_-development,” Audra explains, unable to contain her excited smile. 

“So that was a Disney contract,” Eddie says mildly, remembering the absurd length of it. “That explains a few things.”

“Who’re you playing?” Richie asks. “Olaf?”

“Anna,” she answers, brushing right over his joke.

But Richie is undeterred, and asks, “Can you get me in talks to play Olaf?” but no one’s paying attention to him anymore.

Bev asks, “Are you singing in it, too?”

Audra says yes, she is, and Bill rests a hand on her shoulder and says, “I don’t know if you know this, but she was on Broadway before she came to the dark side of film and television.” 

They talk for a few more minutes about the _Frozen_ news; hard for anyone else to follow that up, really. Finally, Audra puts a stop to it, and asks them again to please keep it to themselves. “Eddie knows, I already broke my contract.” 

Eddie laughs. “Yeah, I think there was a clause, like, if you break the NDA, you’re fair game to Disney’s snipers.” 

“How’s filming on _Black Rapids_ going, by the way?” Bev asks her. “You’re gonna be great as Katharine.”

“Oh, thank you.” Audra talks about that for a bit, about how she likes working with the director, and that she _doesn’t_ like having to be doused in fake blood. “It’s always freezing cold. I don’t understand why they can’t at least heat it up.”

“Who would write such a horrible thing,” Bill laments, clicking his tongue. 

“You know, it’s kinda funny,” Bev says, with a tone that implies it’s not funny at all, “but Bill used to tell me that he wanted me to play Katharine, if there was ever a movie.” 

Eddie sees everyone’s eyebrows raise in near-unison. Now Richie refuses to meet _his_ eye, when he tries to shoot him a look. Ben looks wildly uncomfortable where he sits next to Bev; he reaches to fiddle with his phone, skips the current NKOTB song that’s playing. The Beach Boys start blaring from the speakers instead. 

“Oh. That is funny,” Audra says with little trace of humor. 

Bill, apparently unaware of the awkwardness, says, “Well, you two look pretty similar.”

There’s an audible sharp intake of breath around the bus. Audra says, “Bill,” in a reprimanding tone. 

Richie says, “Dude…” 

“What?” Bill throws his hands up defensively. “They do!”

“_Anyway_,” Audra says pointedly, “How are things going for you, Bev?”

Bev shares for a while about recent roles she’s landed and auditions she’s had. A pilot that never saw the light of day, and a couple one-off TV parts. “My agent says I just have to keep putting in the time and I’ll eventually get something more interesting. It would help if I knew someone in the business who would give me a start.”

Bill sighs heavily. “Bev—”

“What?” Bev says with false innocence.

Before things can escalate much farther, Richie tells them both to knock it off and then grumbles, “I hate actors so much, it’s unreal. No offense, Audra, you seem fine.” 

That breaks the tension for a while. Bev goes to sit by Mike instead, asks him what’s new, and he’s back to talking about his home renovations—and a five-layered bean dip that he brought in plastic tupperware. Bev gets talked into trying it, and when she says she likes it, Mike starts giving her the entire recipe verbally. Bill and Audra have a private chat in low voices, and Richie and Ben are turned to face each other. This leaves Eddie alone, sitting awkwardly across from Ben and Richie, listening but not really a part of their conversation. They talk about the latest happenings in their improv class for a while, poke fun at their instructor and the other students.

Then Ben asks Richie, “How are things with Nick?”

“Oh.” Richie’s eyes flick over to Eddie before he answers. It’s quick, but it gets Eddie’s attention. “Good.”

Eddie leans toward them and asks, “Who’s Nick?” 

“Uh, he’s this guy in our improv class.” Richie taps his fingernails against his La Croix can. “We’ve gone on a few dates recently.” 

“Oh.” Eddie fights with the smile on his face, trying to remember the normal way to react to this kind of news. Why does he feel like the air’s been punched out of him? “That’s great.”

“Yeah…” Richie says slowly. He turns back toward Ben and says that he and Nick saw a movie the other night. Then Richie starts panning the movie because it was, apparently, awful. 

Eddie glances around to find another conversation to intrude on; that one was less than ideal. He’s not completely unaware of his reaction; it felt nice, the attention from Richie, and now it makes him feel decidedly less special to know he’s dating someone else. But, of course, he has no right to feel jealous, so he tries to tamp that down. 

Before he can choose between trying Mike’s bean dip and getting involved in whatever Bill and Audra are discussing, Bill gets up for another drink. As he passes Mike, he puts a hand on his shoulder and says, “So, you’re the reason why Eddie’s in town. Good man.” 

Mike looks confused. “I am?”

Eddie’s heart leaps into this throat. _Fuck, fuck, fuck_. He hadn’t considered this potential pitfall until this exact moment. He’s really slipping. 

“Yeah!” Eddie interjects, too loudly. “Wouldn’t really be able to live here without a job, so…”

“I guess his reputation must have preceded him,” Bill continues. “Mr. Harvard and Yale.”

Mike is still not following, and Eddie tries again to smooth things over: “Yeah, well, I sent over my resume.”

Bill asks, “Did you find him on LinkedIn or something?”

Mike glances at Eddie, the gears clearly turning in his head. “Well, I posted the job and he called me…”

Bill looks back and forth between Eddie and Mike. Eddie considers faking an asthma attack. Although, he might not have to fake it; his throat feels constricted all of a sudden. “Wait,” Bill says slowly. “I thought… I thought you called Eddie to offer him the job? And payed for his relocation?” 

Mike gives a puzzled look to Eddie, but it’s clear he doesn’t suspect anything nefarious. “I sure hope I didn’t. I don’t think I can afford that.” 

Eddie’s eyes fix on the red lever of the emergency exit window. All the side conversations have stopped by now. 

“Eddie?” Bill prompts, still standing, and holding onto the pole for balance. “What’s going on?” 

“Okay, here’s the thing.” Eddie clasps his hands together and closes his eyes for a moment. He takes a deep breath; he can see his way through this. “When I ran into you in New York, I had just been offered a huge promotion, and I was kind of freaking out about it, and I was depressed and lonely, and then you seemed so relaxed and happy and I remembered how close we were, and yeah, it was impulsive but I moved here for a change. I just… needed a change. That’s the truth.”

And it is. Mostly. Everyone’s quiet for a few seconds. Richie lets out a low whistle and Ben says, “Wow,” quietly. 

Bill sits down across from him. “Why didn’t you just tell the truth from the start?”

“Because— because it sounds… _crazy_, I mean…” Eddie lets out a frail laugh. “I mean, how would you have reacted? Hey, Bill, remember last week when I saw you for the first time in twenty years? Well, I decided to move across the country to the city you live in! Wanna get dinner?” 

Everyone’s staring at the floor of the bus or at their own hands, except for Bill who looks back at Eddie with sympathy. “I don’t think that’s crazy. I’m sorry you were so unhappy.” 

Audra reaches to pat his knee, wearing a sad and supportive expression, identical to Bill’s. “A lot of people impulsively move to L.A., Eddie. You’re not alone.” 

Eddie scrubs his hands over his face. He’s not going to get weepy—he’s definitely, _definitely_ not going to do that, his fucking boss is sitting right next to him—but their reactions took a much more genuine turn than he was expecting. For some reason, unconditional love always tends to be a tear-jerker for him, but he doesn’t have time to unpack _that_ right now. 

Mostly, he feels embarrassed. His cheeks are hot to the touch and his hands feel clammy. 

“Well, okay,” Eddie says, avoiding eye contact with everyone. “I’m sorry for the weirdness. And, Mike, I’m sorry for kinda dragging you into my bullshit.”

Mike shrugs. “Well. I guess now I know why you wanted to work for me. Let me know when you start looking for something better so I can repost the job listing.”

Eddie’s mouth falls open. “No! No, I like working for you. I want to stay.”

It’s true, but Eddie doesn’t think he should explain why—because he likes the relatively low-pressure job, the fact that he can goof off with Stanley while on the clock, and the office culture that is so unlike his previous jobs. They observe casual Fridays, for god’s sake. Eddie never considered that a job he enjoys more might be worth a significant pay cut, and it feels like an epiphany. But instead of all of that, Eddie says he likes his coworkers and he likes the clients, and Mike looks entirely too touched at the sentiment—almost like _he_ might cry now. 

By the time they arrive on the beach, everyone seems more than ready to get off the bus and away from each other for a minute. 

Once they’re outside, Eddie overhears Bev ask Ben to help put sunscreen on her back and Ben says something like, “Why don’t you ask Bill to do it?” and Bev says, “What’s _that_ supposed to mean?” Ben huffs and he sounds embarrassed, but he says, “Everyone’s so obsessed with Bill. And now this random guy moves across the country because of him?”

Eddie’s more than happy to pretend he didn’t hear that. As Bev groans and starts saying she's not 'obsessed' with Bill, Eddie hurries off across the sand, kicking it up the back of his legs. 

Behind him, Bill and Audra and Mike start setting up their towels and chairs, but Eddie needs a moment to himself. He recognizes that everything turned out… fine. He was caught in a weird lie, but he talked his way out of it, and at worst it was embarrassing and more vulnerable than he wanted to be. But he made it out alive. He thinks back on what he said—did he really have to sprinkle in the fact that he was depressed and lonely in New York, _for fuck’s sake, Eds_—and cringes. Then he shakes his head and slaps both hands to the side of his face. _No, stop that. You can agonize over this later. You’re at the fucking ocean._

And, _oh, right_. He looks up. He’s only a few yards from where the sand is dark and wet, and the waves roll in at a leisurely pace. Eddie slips out of his flip flops and holds them at his side while he takes a few steps in, feeling the cool sand under his feet, then the water as it laps over him. He smiles—in spite of everything, it’s irresistible—and bends to touch the water with his hand, but the wave slips away before he can reach it. 

Then there’s a shadow and Richie is standing beside him, bare feet burrowing into the sand. “So, that was… something.”

Eddie says, like a warning, “Richie…”

“At least the truth is out in the open now. Well, most of it, anyway.”

Eddie drops his head to his hands, pinches his eyes shut. “Richie, please.”

“What?” Richie nudges his elbow into his side. “Who hasn’t moved across the country for someone they’re in love with?”

“That’s ridiculous, I’m not… ‘in love’ with him.”

“The lady doth protest too much.”

“Cut it out, Richie,” Eddie snaps, lifting his head to look at him. “Like, why do you even care? You barely even know me.” 

Richie stands for a second in silence before he clicks his tongue and backs away. “Yeah, okay. I’ll leave you alone.”

Eddie stands there by himself for a while longer, feeling the waves wash around his ankles again and again. He’s adjusted to the temperature by now; it no longer sends a chill up his spine. _Way to go_, he thinks to himself. _You always do this shit_. 

Eventually, he returns to their umbrella-shaded spot, where Mike and Ben are eating bean dip and drinking beers, music still playing from Ben’s phone. Eddie joins them, sitting down on a towel and staring out at the horizon. He spots Richie and Bill, up to their waists in the water. Bev and Audra are on their shoulders, shrieking with laughter as they wrestle and try to shove each other off.

Apparently their problems are put behind them, Eddie thinks. Or maybe this is how they take out their passive-aggression. 

Bev falls backwards, limbs flailing. The splash is impressive. When her head bobs to the surface a second later, Richie dunks her again. 

“How’re you liking the beach, Eddie?” Ben asks.

Eddie smiles, but it feels empty. He realizes that if you look out far enough, the horizon line is foggy, the sea and the sky blended together. He says, “It’s great.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time to sabotage your own happiness!


	4. Thanksgiving with Bill!

On Monday, Eddie’s not sure if Richie will be there. But, he figures, he has pretty good odds. Five out of seven? Or maybe lower on a weeknight. Three out of five? He thinks about it while he circles the block looking for parking. 

When he opens the door to the pulsing music again, it turns out the odds are in his favor. He spots Richie behind the bar, barely concealing his annoyance at a couple of patrons.

The rest of the Saturday beach day was tense. Richie kept to his promise; he didn’t end up alone with Eddie, and they didn’t directly speak to each other again, only hovering in the same circles, glancing at each other when they spoke but quickly looking away if they ever made eye contact. The bus ride back was long and quiet; everyone was worn out and had had enough of each other. When they parted ways on the sidewalk outside of Eddie’s condo, Bill and Audra hugged him, and Richie said goodnight without quite meeting his eye.

Eddie felt guilty and embarrassed and he thought maybe he should call after him and apologize, or text him later, but he also felt that Richie probably didn’t want to hear it. So, he didn’t. 

Sunday was the kind of deeply dissatisfactory day that left him itchy and restless and starting conversations with cashiers just to feel less alone. He used to have a lot of days like that in New York; he forgot how trapped they made him feel. So he decided he would try to clear the air after work on Monday. 

Richie doesn’t notice him immediately when he sits down at the bar. But when he does turn to Eddie, his eyes go wide with recognition and surprise. “Oh. Hi.”

“Hey,” Eddie says slowly. “Can I get a diet Coke?”

Richie smiles as he turns for a glass. “You’re a wild man, Eds. Drinking caffeine at this time of night.” He fills it up with the soda gun and places it on a coaster in front of him. “So. Something tells me you’re not here for the dance floor.” 

Richie seems nervous, but he’s trying to hide it and something about that makes Eddie feel a bit more at ease. Eddie gets a grip around the glass but doesn’t lift it yet. “Yeah, I wanted to talk to you…” 

There’s a pause, and Richie jumps on it. “Hey, I’m sorry about the whole beach thing.”

Eddie blinks. “That’s my line.” 

“No, no, I am sorry. I was kinda being a dick, like, teasing you. I know I can take stuff too far sometimes.” 

“Oh.” Eddie flushes with relief. “That’s okay. I’m sorry for snapping at you. You’re one of the best friends I’ve made here, and I don’t wanna burn this bridge. I think I like, get scared and push people away.”

“Cheers, bro.” Richie smiles and lifts an imaginary drink. “To not burning bridges.” 

Richie’s called away then to serve some other customers, but he comes back a minute later and stations himself in front of Eddie as he fixes a whiskey sour. 

“Are you going home for Thanksgiving?” Eddie asks. The following week is Thanksgiving and his own plans were nailed down earlier that day. “Seeing family?”

“No, I’ll be here,” Richie says absently.

“Wait, this place isn’t open on Thanksgiving, is it?”

“No, thank god.” Richie disappears briefly to deliver the drink to the other end of the bar then he’s back. “I just meant I’ll be in town. We’re open Black Friday, though.” 

“Do you open at like five a.m.?” 

“Yeah, we have great deals, too. You should camp out on the sidewalk, try to get the doorbusters. But for real, I’m having a Friendsgiving with Bev and Ben. Fifth annual.” 

Richie’s gone for a few more minutes, closing out tabs and starting new ones. When he returns he apologizes for his absence and Eddie says, “Yeah, how dare you?”

Richie asks, “Are you going back to New York?” 

Eddie makes a face. “Hell, no. Um, Audra felt bad that I was gonna be alone and invited me to her family’s house. Along with Bill, obviously.” 

Richie laughs more loudly than Eddie expects; he’s not sure what to make of it, actually, until Richie says, “Holy shit, I think it’s Bill’s first Thanksgiving with her family, too. It must be. They haven’t been together a year, yet.” 

“Oh.” Eddie pales. “Maybe I should say no, that’s a lot to—”

“No, no, no,” Richie says, reaching his hands out toward Eddie and then pulling them back to his chest. “You should go, I’m just getting some kind of sick enjoyment over Bill getting third-wheeled.” 

“If anyone’s third-wheeling it’s—”

“Hold that thought,” Richie says, dashing away again.

“—me,” Eddie finishes to himself. 

Eddie finishes his drink before Richie comes back. He spends some time at the other end of the bar, chatting with a group of people and it seems personal, like they’re not just customers. Eddie considers leaving some cash on the bar and just slipping away, but there he is again, falling back into avoidant habits. So instead, he looks at his phone until Richie comes back. 

“Sorry, sorry,” he says as he breezes back over. “Anyway, you should definitely go. From what I hear, Audra’s parents don’t like Bill so I need you to report back on everything that happens.” 

“Who’re they?” Eddie asks, noticing that one of the guys from the group is now watching them talk. 

“Oh.” Richie looks down at them and smiles tightly. “They’re from my improv class. Um. That’s Nick. Uh, Natalie, Sasha, Jerome.” 

Of course, Eddie looks with more interest at Nick now. He notices a few things. He and Nick are a similar height and build, have similar haircuts and maybe even a similar energy, from what Eddie can tell. Nick’s posture is looser, more slumped, but Eddie recognizes himself in the way he speaks and listens. And are they both wearing polo shirts? If Eddie worries he’s overthinking things, when he looks back to Richie, Richie immediately says, “Okay, okay, I know what you’re thinking.”

Eddie grins. “I’m not thinking anything.” 

Richie’s face splits with a lopsided smile. “It’s not my fault you’re both, like, the default version of a man. Like, you look up ‘man’ in the dictionary, it’s just a picture of you.”

Eddie laughs. “Hey, fuck you.” 

“It’s not a bad thing! You’re just very… J. Crew mannequin. And I have basic taste. It’s not like there’s anything that connects the two of you that isn’t average and boring and applies to, like, fifty percent of guys around here.”

“You are justifying this way too much, Rich.” 

“No offense,” he adds.

“Why would I be offended? You just said that I’m basic and average and boring.” 

“No, no, no, get this right. I said _I’m_ basic. And while your demographics are admittedly average, you are anything but boring.” 

Eddie makes a face. “That sounds even less like a compliment.”

“Well. Yeah.” Richie shrugs, grinning. “You got me there.”

+

Audra’s parents’ house is in Santa Barbara, nestled in the hills and off a private, winding road. Eddie drove himself, planning to go back home after dinner, while Bill and Audra are staying overnight. When he arrives, Bill and Audra are there in the driveway, unloading a suitcase. Eddie gets his homemade pumpkin pie out of the backseat and follows them in. 

Eddie’s nervous about spending the next few hours intruding on someone else’s family, but Audra has assured him again and again that it’ll fine and that they’ll love him. And while Bill has met her parents and sister before, he hasn’t met the rest of her extended family, so it’s not like Eddie is the only newcomer. 

The inside of the house has stucco walls and wood floors and arched doorways. Audra’s parents and sister meet them by the front door and they all stay there in the entryway for a while, making introductions. Her mom, Grace, has elegant gray hair and wears turquoise earrings and a Bohemian dress. Her dad, Don, is not especially tall, about the same height as his wife and daughters, and wearing a light sweater and khakis. Her older sister, Christine, looks similar to Audra; same fair complexion, but her hair is lighter, closer to strawberry blond than auburn. 

Eddie, still gripping the pie, explains who he is and what brought him to town (sort of; the original explanation, anyway, the one that Bill and Audra know isn’t true), and thanks the Phillips for having him.

After they meet a couple aunts and uncles and cousins, they’re finally ushered further into the house, into the kitchen, and offered glasses of wine. Eddie gladly accepts. Christine takes the pie off his hands and Eddie says, sheepishly, that it’s homemade—“the crust, too”—and made from a real pumpkin, not the pulp in a can, which leads to all the women swarming him and asking impressed questions. 

Eddie explains the recipe: “It’s pretty simple, actually. You just roast a pumpkin, scoop out the pulp. I put it through a food processor to make it a bit smoother. Then you add an egg, cream. Maple syrup, bourbon.” 

Christine claps a hand over her heart as if the mere thought of it will do her in. “Forget dinner, let’s skip right to dessert.” 

Grace agrees as she places the pie on the counter next to two others. “Maybe you can become a permanent part of our family Thanksgivings.” 

Next to Eddie, Bill chuckles as he pops the cap off a beer. 

There are a few hours to kill before dinner. Apparently the division of labor is that the women prepare the food and the men clean up afterward. Most of the food is already made and either cooking or heating in one of their ovens—they have _two_ ovens—and there’s an appetizer spread on the expansive kitchen island. Cheeses and olives and crackers and nuts. There’s a football game playing on the TV in the living room, and most of the men are congregated there, but Eddie feels most comfortable stationed in the kitchen, trying to offer his help whenever he can. 

That’s how he’s placed in charge of the crockpot of mashed potatoes, stirring it periodically to make sure it heats evenly, and salting and buttering it to taste. He’s happy to stay at his post, just involved enough in the kitchen conversation without having to fully engage. 

Audra waits until only her mom and sister are in the kitchen—and Eddie—and then tells them her live-action _Frozen_ news in a low voice. Christine shrieks and jumps up and down with her. 

“But you can’t tell anyone!” Audra says seriously. “Seriously. Eddie helped me with the contract, and he’s already seen me break it, like, three times.” 

Bill wanders into the kitchen then to refill his appetizer plate and he glances between them, amused. “Looks like you heard the exciting news.” Then he peers into Eddie’s crockpot and says, “These are gonna be the best potatoes ever, huh?” 

“How’s the writing, Bill?” Grace asks. “Are you working on anything new?”

He shrugs and gestures to Audra. “The miniseries is taking up most of my time right now. But, you know, I can’t turn it off completely. I’m always filing sssst-stuff away, making notes. Playing with a fff- a few ideas right now.”

Audra laughs. “Yeah, we’ll be out at dinner or whatever and the waiter will do something weird and he’ll have to pull out his phone and jot it all down.” 

Grace laughs but it’s not entirely friendly when she says, “We better be careful, then. Or your next book will be about a family getting murdered on Thanksgiving.” 

Bill smiles down at the cheese spread. “Thanksgiving _is_ underutilized in horror.” 

Grace looks back to Eddie now. “How are the potatoes coming, dear?” 

He startles at the sudden attention—and can’t help but feel it’s calculated. He thinks of what Richie told him; Audra’s parents don’t like Bill. “Uh, good. Probably beat in some warm milk right before serving, and they’ll be perfect.” 

“Sounds delicious,” she says. She’s mixing up a salad dressing, while Christine and Audra lazily chop vegetables. “Do you think you’ll go home to New York for the holidays?” 

Eddie has a bad feeling about this line of inquiry, but he answers. “Not sure yet. I’m not, well… I don’t know if I want to, to be honest, but maybe I should.”

His mother already gave him an earful about Thanksgiving. She keeps threatening to show up in L.A. and he wouldn’t put it past her. Eddie’s family was always small growing up. Holidays were limited to him and his mom and sometimes her single, childless sister. He somehow felt both suffocated with attention and neglected when he was with them. 

Grace gives him a sympathetic look. “Well, if you need a place to go, we’d love to have you again.”

Eddie smiles; his suspicion was right. Despite the fact that he knows he’s a pawn in making Bill feel bad, it still leaves him feeling warm to think that Audra’s family likes him. Stupid, he knows. They barely know him; all he’s done is bring a pie that they haven’t tasted yet and stand here silently stirring a pot of potatoes. And be a lawyer, he supposes. That might be a big point in his favor. He says, “Thanks,” and glances at Bill but Bill doesn’t look at him. 

Instead, Bills fills up his plate and slips outside onto the patio. It doesn’t seem that Audra noticed his discomfort, but it was painfully apparent to Eddie. So, a moment later, Eddie puts the lid back on the crockpot, turns the heat down, and follows him. 

It’s already dark outside, but still a comfortable seventy degrees. Eddie’s not sure he’ll ever get used to that; he still braces himself before stepping outside, a leftover reaction from living in a less pleasant climate for his entire life. There are a few palm trees around the paved patio, string lights hung between them and the terracotta roof. Bill sits by himself at the table, eating olives and staring at the lights of the rest of the city below them. 

“Hey…” Eddie sits down next to him. 

“Hey.” Bill lets out a dejected laugh and says, “You and Audra should be together, huh?”

“They might not be so keen on that since I’m, you know, gay,” Eddie says, desperate to lighten the mood. 

“They think I’m some dark weirdo who writes books about kids getting killed.”

Eddie can’t help but crack a smile. “I mean… if the shoe fits.” 

Bill laughs genuinely, tipping his head back. “Oh, fuck off, Ed.”

“Look, it doesn’t matter what they think,” Eddie says. “You’re a great guy. She loves you. And once they get to know you, really get to know you, they’ll love you, too.” 

Bill rolls his eyes, but he looks touched, his guard slipping. “Thanks, man. I guess… Between you and me, I guess lately I’m worrying that Audra’s starting to get out of my league.”

Eddie raises an eyebrow. “Starting? Wouldn’t you say she’s always been out of your league?” 

Bill bursts into surprised laughter again, snorting with the force of it. “Is this you trying to make me feel better? ‘Cause I have some notes.” 

“I’m trying to get you to stop moping. Now, man up and go charm the pants off her family.” 

Bill wrinkles his nose. “Weird way of putting it. But, yeah, you’re right. Thanks. I’m glad you’re here.” He slaps a hand to Eddie’s shoulder and jostles him.

Eddie kind of hates these macho displays of affection but he smiles anyway. 

Soon, they’re all seated for dinner, Bill between Audra and Eddie, and across from her parents. Before they eat, they go around and share what they’re thankful for, which Eddie finds to be an appropriately secular version of saying a prayer. Bill seems to take Eddie’s advice and speaks sincerely, Audra beaming at him while he does; he says he’s grateful for Audra, that she’s the best thing in his life, and to be welcomed into her family’s home and to have the opportunity to get to know all of them and that they already feel like family to him. 

Bill can always find the right words in a pinch. Audra’s eyes are shiny as she holds his hand under the table.

Then Eddie has to follow _that_, so he chuckles and says, “Well. Ditto.” Everyone laughs, Bill maybe most of all, as he slaps Eddie’s back. “No, no, for real, I’m thankful for old friends and new friends,” he nods at Bill and Audra respectively, “and good food and to be surrounded by such a great family. Thank you all for having me.”

Then the conversation is limited to the food for a while: turkey and stuffing and potatoes and cranberries and a salad and fluffy dinner rolls.

“Better save some room for dessert,” Audra says, winking at Eddie. 

It seems that the tension may have melted away after the heartfelt speeches and a few glasses of wine; Bill is in his best charming form now, inquiring after everyone and regaling the table with some stories of his own. 

“The worst thing about having a sst- having a _stutter_,” he says, rolling his eyes at the prescient timing, “is that your own name is usually one of the hardest things to say. And I’ve come up with a lot of strategies over the years. I’ll stall or I’ll switch words if I can’t say something. Sometimes I’ll order food that I don’t even want at a restaurant because I’m struggling to say the thing that I do want.” He laughs good-naturedly as everyone chuckles. “Or I pretend to forget things, or to be searching for the right word. But there’s one thing you can’t use any of those strategies for. And that’s your own name. I tried it once, when I was a kid. Actually, with Eh- with Eddie.”

Eddie glances up from his plate, brow furrowed. He doesn’t remember this. “Really?”

“Yeah, when we first met. You asked me my name, as people do, and I said, ‘Uhhh… umm… uhhh…’ And you just looked at me and said, ‘You forgot your name?’” 

Eddie laughs; he still doesn’t remember but it sounds like him. He was a blunt kid, as most kids are. He was never rude on purpose, but it took him a while to understand that there are some things you don’t say. He realizes he may have overcorrected later in life; for the past few years, there seemed to be very little he was willing to say. Maybe that’s why he feels it was easier to make connections in childhood. 

“Do you think that’s why you enjoy writing?” Don, Audra’s dad, asks, seeming genuinely interested.

Bill nods. “Probably. Obviously it’s not that bad anymore, the stutter, but it’s still the freedom to communicate, to say exactly what I want, that I never really had.”

When it’s time for dessert, there’s freshly brewed coffee and three pies spread out on the table. Pumpkin, pecan, and apple. Everyone gushes over Eddie’s pumpkin pie for a while and he shares again how he made it. He’s glad it’s a hit; he didn’t buy a crème brûlée torch for nothing. 

Then Bill taps his fork against his wine glass and the room falls silent. He stands up, smiling with a clearly nervous air. He launches into another speech, similar to the first one—hinging on how much he loves Audra, how much he appreciates her family. 

Eddie wonders if he’s simply hit the wine too hard, but his stomach starts to knot up watching him. Audra looks up at Bill with quiet apprehension. Her eyes seem to implore, _What are you doing?_

Then after a nervous trill of laughter, Bill gets down on one knee. There’s an audible gasp around the table and Audra’s hands are over her mouth as she looks down at him. 

“I don’t even have a ring, and I know this is sudden, but—”

Audra nods and squeaks, “Yes,” from behind her hands.

“Will you marry me?” Bill finishes, and she says, “Yes,” again, before grabbing his face to kiss him. 

After a long beat of silence, Christine starts the applause. Bill and Audra hug as everyone claps. When it settles down, Bill sitting back in his chair with his arm around Audra, Grace says, “Well, that was… exciting.” 

“I swear I wasn’t planning on that,” Bill says, still grinning from ear to ear. 

Eddie can feel a bit of tension settling in again—Audra’s mom’s smile is pinched—so he throws himself on the tracks by raising his wine glass and proposing a toast to the happy couple. 

After that, Eddie springs on the first lull in the conversation to say he had better be heading home. Grace asks him if he’s sure he doesn’t want to stay the night—“It’s a long drive,” she says, and he can sleep on their couch—but Eddie politely refuses. He thanks Audra’s parents again and says goodbye to everyone, how nice it was to meet them. Bill and Audra walk him to the door.

“Thanks for inviting me,” he says to Audra, giving her a hug. “And congratulations, again.” He holds out his hand to Bill, but he pulls Eddie in for a crushing hug instead. 

“Thanks, Eddie,” he says close against his ear. “Drive safe.”

He’s on the 101 shortly before eight, a two hour drive ahead of him. He considers the time, and the time zones, but then says, “Call Stanley.” The phone is ringing over his car’s speaker in a moment.

And Stan answers, sounding surprisingly chill with the late night holiday call. “Hey, Eddie.”

“Hey. Can you talk?”

“Yeah.” There’s the sound of movement, maybe a door opening and closing. “Just recovering from the food coma.”

“How’s Wisconsin?”

Stan laughs. “I always forget how fucking cold it is. But it’s good.”

“That’s good…” Eddie figures he might as well just get on with it. “So, Bill and Audra are engaged now.” 

“_What?!_” Stan’s shriek is everything Eddie could have hoped for. “When did this happen?” 

“_Tonight!_” Eddie yells back, finally letting loose the energy that’s kept bottled up for the past few hours. “It came out of nowhere! One minute Bill is sulking because Audra’s parents don’t like him and he thinks she’s too good for him—”

“She _is_.”

“I know, I told him that, but then the next thing I know he’s proposing to her!”

Stan is laughing almost hysterically on the other end of the line. “Holy _shit_.”

“Why are you laughing?”

“Wow. This made my night. And she said yes.”

“Yes, she said yes.” Eddie pauses. “It might kinda be my fault. I gave him this pep talk, and…”

“They should make you pay for their divorce lawyer.” 

Eddie laughs but feels guilty about it. “Don’t say that. They’re gonna be fine.”

“Yeah, ‘cause Hollywood relationships have such a great track record,” Stan says. “Well, thank you so much for telling me, really, but I better rejoin the family before they start thinking I’m having an affair or something.” 

Eddie laughs. “Does Patty look at your call record and ask about me?”

“Oh, she knows about you. She exclusively calls you my ‘little friend.’” Eddie can almost hear Stan roll his eyes. “‘Is that your little friend calling?’” 

“You know, I’m five-nine, which is the average height for most of the world,” he jokes.

Stan chuckles. “I’ll tell her that. Goodnight, Eddie. Happy Thanksgiving.”

“Yeah, you, too. Night.” When he hangs up with Stan, Eddie pauses for a moment and then says, “Call Richie.” 

Richie answers after a few rings. “Hello?”

“Hey! Is the Friendsgiving still going on? I’m on my way back from Santa Barbara right now.”

“Oh, Ben and Bev are about to head out,” Richie says. “But I have leftover pie, you should swing by.”

That’s what he does. It’s just after ten when Eddie pulls up outside of Richie’s apartment. Richie welcomes him in. Eddie notes a couple dorm-room-esque elements, namely the band posters and stack of pizza boxes waiting to be taken to the recycling. (He hopes the pile’s been building for more than a month, by the size of it.) But other elements show some taste and maturity. He has a lot of books, Eddie notices, and the furniture is eclectic but high quality. 

“Sorry I missed Ben and Bev,” Eddie says as he slips out of his shoes. 

“No you’re not,” Richie says, leading him to the kitchen. “It’s exhausting being around those two at this point.”

“How so?”

Richie sighs and offers Eddie a cup of coffee. “It’s decaf. Do you want pie?”

“Yeah, sure. It’s been two hours since my last slice, so I’m due.”

It’s a store bought pumpkin pie, but Eddie’s always had a soft spot for those. Richie serves him a slice and explains: “Well, Ben’s been puppy-dog-eyes over her since they first met, but Bev had this thing with Bill for a while, now she still kinda has this weird thing with him.”

Eddie laughs. “God. What is it about Bill, huh?”

“I know,” Richie says, rolling his eyes. “He has the charisma of a cult leader. And Bev is so thick, she doesn’t know what’s good for her. And something must have happened between them recently, her and Ben, I mean, because instead of dancing around each other like usual, they’re like…” Richie grips the knife he used to slice the pie in a menacing way. “Not like at each other’s throats, but there’s _tension_, for sure. And neither of them will tell me what happened! Which is bullshit because Bev throws a fit if I don’t tell her every detail about my love life.” 

Eddie smiles. “Hopefully they figure it out soon.”

“Yeah. To speed things along, I might lock them in a closet and not let them out until they have sex.” Richie covers his own slice of pie in whipped cream. “Anyway, how was the Phillips family?”

“Oh my god,” Eddie says, jolting upright as he realizes he hasn’t told Richie the news yet.

“What?” Richie sits up straight, too, alarmed. “What? What?”

“Bill proposed.”

“_What?!_” Richie slams his hands down on the table, sending his fork flipping to the floor. “Did she—?”

“She said yes.”

“_What?!_” They both nearly collapse with laughter. “How was that not the first thing you said when I picked up the phone?” 

Eddie shakes his head and wipes his eyes. “I don’t know, I don’t know, it’s been a long day!” 

“This makes your third-wheeling even more hilarious if he was planning to propose.”

“He wasn’t planning on it!” Eddie says, starting to laugh again. “It was totally impulsive, he doesn’t even have a ring yet.”

Richie’s eyes are wide behind his glasses. “Oh _shit_. Your influence.”

“What do you mean ‘my influence’?”

“Well.” Richie shrugs. “You got that live-in-the-moment, make-big-decisions-on-a-whim thing down.” 

Eddie, already worried that he accidentally played a hand in this, doesn’t like the idea of that. 

Richie might notice his discomfort because he changes the subject. “Wanna watch the dog show? I think I DVR’d it.” 

“I love the dog show.”

“Right? Best part of Thanksgiving.” 

They sit on Richie’s couch until after midnight, making each other laugh with a running commentary about the dogs and getting into an argument about whether or not bulldogs are cute. Eddie says, “No, no way, they look like asthmatic gargoyles,” and Richie says, “What’s wrong with asthmatic gargoyles?” Then Richie pulls up a picture of a puppy English bulldog to try to prove his point and it is admittedly very cute, but Eddie says, “That’s cheating,” and Richie says, exasperated, “How is that cheating?!” 

Eddie, on the other hand, defends the Chinese crested as being ‘actually pretty cute’ and Richie looks at him like he’s insane. “That thing? It looks like a drowned rat.” 

By the time the Pekingese is crowned best in show—a dog that neither of them have much love for—it’s late. When Richie turns the TV off and Eddie sees the two of them reflected back in its dark surface, it hits Eddie that this was a very personal hang-out, and a big step for them as friends. 

“I guess I should get going,” Eddie says, stifling a yawn. 

“If you want to crash here, you can,” Richie offers. “But be warned, I will wake you up in four hours to take me to the mall.” 

Eddie laughs—and considers it. But he doesn’t much like sleeping over at another person’s house, especially when he doesn’t have his pajamas or toiletries with him. So he declines. 

Richie hovers by the door while Eddie puts his shoes back on. “You can find your way out of here?” he says then, opening the door to the hallway of his apartment building.

“Yeah, I think I can manage,” Eddie says. “This was fun. Have a good night.”

“Goodnight. Happy Thanksgiving.” 

While Eddie walks back to his car and drives home, he thinks that it was a good Thanksgiving, all in all. Probably the best he’s ever had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the story Bill tells about his stutter is my actual life -_- rip 10 year old me for trying that.


	5. Bill is irrelevant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has the most egregious Barry reference/character cameo, just roll with it.

Eddie finally gets a dinner invite with the Urises. Patty is very sweet, but acts like she already knows him, not afraid to joke around. She says that she’s heard a lot about him, and when Eddie says, “Good things I hope?” she makes a face that requires no additional explanation. Their house is a modest but comfortable three bedroom; clearly bought with the intention of a family. Stan cooks dinner, roasted chicken breasts and potatoes, and Eddie teases him the whole time, about his little apron and his knife skills.

“You’re such a cute little housewife,” Eddie jokes.

Stan snorts. “Didn’t think you were so heteronormative, Eddie.” 

Patty talks about her job for a while, and Eddie asks specific enough follow-up questions to leave her suspicious: “Have you worked in healthcare?” 

“No, no,” he says. “Just had a hypochondriac mother and spent every other weekend in the ER growing up.” 

Patty pours them each a glass of wine, and says, “Stanley, have you shared your news, yet?”

“What news?”

Stan looks embarrassed, which is kind of adorable, as Patty shares that he scored in the ninety-ninth percentile on the LSAT, and has started applying to law schools. After Eddie congratulates him, Stan asks Eddie for a favor: “Would you write me a recommendation letter? I’ll ask Mike, too, but between you and me, I think your credentials are a bit more impressive.”

“Of course,” Eddie says, flattered by the request. “You two are gonna be a real power couple. A doctor and a lawyer.” 

Patty smiles. “That’s the goal.” 

“Why have kids?” Eddie says. “Just retire at fifty and travel the world.” As soon as the words are out, he winces, realizing that may not have been the most tactful.

Stan shoots him a look, but Patty just shrugs, unbothered. “Well, we want kids.” 

Eddie backpedals: “Yeah, yeah, of course.” 

Stan rolls a bag of potatoes across the counter toward Eddie. “Will you wash these?” 

Eddie jumps at the diversion, already rolling up his sleeves, but Patty says, “Don’t make him work.” 

Eddie freezes for a moment, caught between them. “I feel more comfortable when I’m being useful,” he admits, and they laugh as he stations himself in front of the sink.

Eddie washes the dirt off the potatoes, and afterward Stan inspects them, but can’t find any faults to object to. He seems almost disappointed. But when Eddie starts halving the small spuds, Stan complains about the ‘uneven sizes’—Eddie’s on the meticulous side himself, and they look fine to him—and finally elbows Eddie out of the way to do the job himself. 

Eddie returns to his wine glass, amused, and says, “Your husband’s kinda crazy, Patty. Did you know he stalked me when I first moved here?”

“Yeah.” Patty rolls her eyes. “He called you Harvard-and-Yale exclusively for a few days. ‘Harvard-and-Yale was wearing Gucci loafers. Real Gucci loafers. Who wears Gucci loafers?’” 

“I mean, really,” Stan says, his eyes lighting up with fresh anger. “Who the fuck wears Gucci loafers?”

After dinner, they’re each a few glasses of wine deep and sitting in the living room. Stan clicks through a slideshow of their recent trip to Yosemite; a lot of the pictures are of birds, and Stan hurries through them, rattling off the species names as he goes. 

When they reach the end of the show and tell, there’s a beat of silence and Eddie wonders if he should make a graceful exit. But then Patty blurts, “Sorry to say it, Eddie, but I’ve been getting a kick out of some of the stories Stan tells me.” 

Eddie gives him a _Really, man?_ look, but then laughs good-naturedly. “What have you heard?” 

“Oh, just your misadventures with Bill Denbrough and Audra Phillips.”

“I’m glad my mid-life crisis is entertaining to both of you.” 

“We’ve been married since we graduated college,” Stan says simply. “We’re old and boring and your life is our favorite soap.” 

“Are you happy you moved here, though?” Patty asks. “Want to stay?”

Eddie nods, considering. He hasn’t thought about it much, honestly, which surprises him now. It didn’t really occur to him that not staying was an option. At this point, he definitely can’t go back to his old life in New York, nor would he want to. He’s building a new life in L.A. and he’s starting to be pretty happy with that life.

He’s spent too long thinking about it, and Stan says, “Your silence speaks volumes.”

Eddie laughs. “No, no, I am. I really needed a change. I like the job, and I have a few good friends out here… and Stanley…”

They shoot each other the kind of faux-annoyed look that only good friends can pull off. 

Eddie continues, his face starting to heat before he says it, “And… there’s this guy…”

Patty and Stan both lean toward him with interest, looking far too similar. “Another guy?” Stan asks.

“Yeah…” Eddie tightens his grip on his wine glass. Admitting it aloud feels like a big step. “He’s one of Bill’s friends. We’ve hung out a few times. On Thanksgiving, when I came back from Santa Barbara…”

“Name?” Stan prompts, without looking up. His cell phone is already out in his hands. 

“Richie,” Eddie admits, like it’s been dragged out of him. 

“Richie what?”

“Tozier.” Eddie drops his head back against the sofa, his stomach flipping with embarrassment. Why does he feel like a kid again, having his crush’s name extracted from him during some mortifying game of truth or dare? Of course, he usually lied during those games. But it didn’t make the ordeal any less painful.

Before he knows it, Stan has synced the TV to his phone, playing a grainy YouTube video. It’s Richie performing comedy, at least a few years ago.

“This him?” Stan asks, looking gleeful and slightly malicious. 

“Yeah.” Eddie takes a careful glance at the screen. Richie’s hair is longer, curlier; he wears smaller, less-stylish glasses, and he looks dorky in a cute way that makes Eddie want to smile. He doesn’t really hear the words Richie is saying, just listens to the familiar cadence of his voice. “He bartends, but he does stand-up on the side.” 

Then they’re taking a tour of Richie’s Facebook and Instagram and Twitter, all projected onto the flatscreen. It’s the kind of stuff that might raise some concerns for a potential employer, but Eddie figures if Richie is pursuing comedy, it might add to his credentials. He also gets the idea that Richie’s sobriety is not very long-lived. The photos of him passed out on various couches are not that far down his feed—and somehow still _on_ his feed. It makes Eddie want to sit him down and teach him how to untag himself in photos. 

Richie’s photos are kind of awkward, too, even the ones that aren’t incriminating—and he’s definitely not the type to post any flattering selfies or staged candids. He has a unique face, maybe one that looks better in motion. 

Eddie can barely look, his skin crawling with the sensation of being judged. “Do we really have to like, look at this on the big screen?”

“Yes, we do,” Stan says, pausing on a tweet from a year ago that reads, ‘this morning I googled DIY IV drip, how’s your weekend going.’ 

“Look, he’s really sweet,” Eddie says, feeling some kind of need to defend him. “And he’s actually gay and was interested in me… But he’s dating someone else now.” 

Stan gives him a knowing look—the kind that really pisses Eddie off—and says, “So you just like him because he’s inaccessible?”

Eddie sputters for a second before he manages to say, “No…”

“Who’s he dating?” Patty asks, taking Stan’s phone to scroll through Richie’s social media herself. 

Soon enough she lands on a photo Richie was tagged in: a couple friends from improv, Nick included, huddled around a table at Residuals. “That’s him,” Eddie says. 

Stan barks a laugh. “You’re kidding. He looks—”

“Like me, I know.”

“I mean,” Patty says, coming through as a voice of reason. “He looks like you in the way that you look like Stan. Both white, dark hair, not that tall. Your faces aren’t that similar.”

Stan shakes his head, unconvinced. “No, he looks like Eddie. I don’t look like Eddie.”

+

On Thursday, Mike takes Eddie out for lunch, and Eddie is worried it’s some kind of impromptu performance review. Until, that is, Mike’s convoluted story about how he started doing Zumba recently stretches on too long to simply be an ice-breaker. Eddie tries to follow along, tries to anticipate what the point might be, as Mike discusses some of the songs they dance to, and that honestly at first he started going to meet women—he’s been single a long time—but then he started noticing the instructor of his class.

“His name is Josh,” Mike says, treating the pronoun with a certain emphasis. He smiles guiltily as he continues, “He’s a trainer at my gym, and I’ve started going more recently just to see him.” 

“Wait, wait.” Eddie shakes his head, processing. He’s too confused to treat this with much delicacy. “Are you… coming out to me?” 

Mike nods. “Yeah, I’m bi.” 

“Okay.” Eddie adjusts his position in his chair, not much less confused. “Uh, cool. Is there any reason why you’re telling me?” 

“Well, because you’re… you’re… you know.” 

Eddie stares back at him. Mike not being straight himself is barely making up for this. “I’m what?” 

Mike lowers his voice, leans in and says, “You’re… gay.” 

Eddie sighs. Boss or not, this kind of thing irritates him to no end. “Mike, I don’t think I’ve told you that. So, is this just an assumption, or…?” 

Mike waves his hands defensively. “No, no! It’s just you and Stanley are… loud sometimes.” 

Eddie’s face burns as he realizes the type of conversations he and Stan regularly have in the break room, or even at their desks. 

“Okay, fair.” Eddie takes a few bites of his salad. Why did he order a salad? He doesn’t even _like_ salads and now he’s starting to feel near-crazed with hunger. This conversation is requiring more sustenance than he expected. He eyes Mike’s sandwich with envy before he continues. “Sorry. So, are you looking for…?” He doesn’t want to say ‘advice,’ that sounds too presumptuous, so instead he trails off, eyebrows raised. 

“Well.” Mike shrugs. “I don’t know. I know it took me kind of a long time to figure it out. I guess I just wanted to tell someone who might understand.”

Eddie instantly feels like a dick. He leans forward and smiles warmly at Mike, putting aside for a moment their professional relationship and the fact that he has never—_ever_—been out at work. Rarely been out at all, in any capacity, really. 

“Don’t worry about your age or anything like that,” Eddie tells him. “There’s no right way to do any of this, or any timeline you have to follow.”

Mike smiles back. “Yeah. Thanks. Maybe the fact that I’m attracted to women allowed me to… ignore my attraction to men? For a while, anyway.”

Eddie nods. “I think that’s pretty common.”

Mike’s face is solemn for a few seconds. Eddie frowns as he pokes his fork at a soggy crouton. Then Mike takes a bite of his sandwich, chews, and straightens up with newfound resolve. “Well, I want to make up for lost time.”

“That’s the spirit!” Eddie encourages. “So, are you on any dating apps?” Eddie’s eye twitches awkwardly after he says it, but it’s too late to choose to not go down this road.

Mike nods and pulls out his phone. “Yeah, I’m on Tinder.” 

“Time to change those preferences.”

“Shouldn’t I use Grindr?” Mike asks and Eddie ignores the question. In a few minutes, Mike gets his Tinder up and running and swipes for a while, smiling. “This is exciting. Lots of guys…” 

Eddie hasn’t logged onto anything since his relocation; he sort of hates dating apps himself. It’s a necessary evil in today’s world, especially when you’re his age and especially when you’re gay, but he only works up the nerve to open an app once every couple of months. 

Then Mike pauses. “Oh, this is Ben’s friend. Richie.” 

Eddie’s stomach drops and he’s reaching across the table. “Can I see that?” Eddie takes Mike’s phone without waiting for an answer. Richie’s profile is surprisingly earnest. He’s selected a few good photos, two of which are selfies with Bev, and one of him on stage, microphone in hand. His bio reads: 

_Comedian, bartender. If you send me weird messages, I’ll probably read them on stage.  
(The redhead isn’t my gf, she’s my hag.)_

Eddie snorts and hands the phone back to Mike, keeping his face neutral. A moment later Mike chuckles and says, “We matched.” 

“Really?”

“Yeah.” Then: “Oh, he said hi.” Mike types something back, grinning. 

Eddie grips his fork so hard his knuckles are white. “That’s nice.”

+

After work, Eddie drives to North Hollywood and checks the address a few times before he goes inside. It doesn’t look like a coffee shop; it looks more like a Russian bakery. The interior doesn’t clear things up. He’s greeted by a bald man with tattooed arms and a Chechen accent welcoming him to ‘NoHo Boba’ and introducing himself as ‘NoHo Hank.’ 

When Eddie glances up to the menu board in confusion, he hears Richie call his name. Richie joins him, helps him muddle through an order—he ends up with honeydew and matcha, a combination which Hank assures him is a ‘great choice’—and pays for it. 

Eddie thinks that Richie paying for his drink separates this from a purely platonic get-together, but he’s not about to complain. Then again, flirting with other people while on a date is a weird move; Hank and Richie aren’t flirting, necessarily, but there’s a vibe that Eddie finds hard to ignore. 

Richie says, “I’ve recruited a friend to help me try all of your one point two million flavor combinations. If we come weekly, we’ll be done in—” he crunches the numbers on his phone, “—eleven thousand years.” 

“Oh, you’re so funny, Richie,” Hank says, and he might be the only person to have ever said that sentence free of sarcasm. 

“When are you gonna come to one of my shows?” 

Hank holds out Richie’s change. “Send me the deets, man.” 

Richie dumps the change in the tip jar and leads Eddie to a table by the window, where Richie’s laptop is already set up, plugged into the wall, and there’s a half-full drink sitting beside it. 

After Eddie sits down, he takes another moment to absorb the atmosphere. There’s a glass display cabinet against the wall behind Richie, proudly housing a collection of intricately patterned Porcelain dishes. There’s accordion music playing over the speakers, soft, but loud enough to make out the Polka lilt. The only other clientele appear to be a group of five large men, similarly tattooed, sitting around a table toward the back and conversing over croissants. 

“This is the weirdest cultural mash-up I’ve ever experienced,” Eddie says quietly. “I mean, accordion music?” 

Richie shrugs. “But the boba’s good, right?”

Eddie has yet to determine that. A moment later, Hank brings his drink to the table, and Eddie skewers the lid with the oversized straw and tries a taste. It is pretty good. Eddie admits as much, but then, eyeing the group of men in the back, whispers, “Do you think this place is a front for the mob, or something?” 

“Racist,” Richie chides. “Not all Russians are criminals. Some are just pioneering bubble tea shop owners.”

Apparently this is Richie’s favorite place to write; he doesn’t feel bad about hogging a table for a few hours, at least in comparison to the busier coffee shops in the area. The wifi kind of sucks, but that just eliminates potential distractions. And the prices are cheap and the service is good. And, Eddie thinks, the service might double as the world’s most generous test audience for Richie’s material. 

That’s the reason for this little rendezvous: Richie is writing, and Eddie is keeping him company while he works on Stan’s recommendation letter. Well, he spends the first ten minutes googling Chechen gang symbols and comparing the results with Hank’s tattoos. Then he drops it; the tea is pretty good, after all. 

Eddie sighs at the blank document he has open and asks, “Have you ever written a recommendation letter?” 

Richie takes a moment to finish typing before he glances up, brow furrowed. “What? No. I’m a bartender.” 

“I’ve written a few and it’s always like pulling teeth.” Eddie tends to agonize over every word, wondering if he sounds sincere but not overly flattering. Then there’s the added pressure of the person you’re writing about reading the letter. 

A second later, Richie spins his laptop around to show Eddie his screen. He’s pulled up a template for a recommendation letter. “Just, like, change the names and shit.” 

“Why even change the names?” Eddie says. “It’s perfect as is. Dear sir or madam, I recommend ‘name’ for admission to ‘school.’”

“Straight to the point. No frills.” 

Eddie muddles his way through it, after reading a few examples and lists of what to avoid. Stan can always edit it if he doesn’t like it. Richie stays surprisingly focused on his work, and doesn’t make much conversation. He gets another drink at some point and offers to buy Eddie another, but he passes; one dose of evening caffeine is enough of a mistake. It’s nice spending this kind of time together, Eddie thinks. Low pressure, casual, but intimate. He likes the way that Richie squints at the screen and tugs at his own hair while he thinks. 

An hour and a half later, when they part ways on the sidewalk out front, Richie steps in to give Eddie a hug. Richie’s tall, has maybe a good five inches on him, and it’s nice to hug someone taller than you, press your face against their shoulder. And he smells good. 

While he drives home, Eddie can’t stop thinking about the hug, replaying the firm press of Richie’s chest, the feel of his hand on the small of his back. He chuckles to himself. _Well, here we go._

+

Bill and Audra’s engagement party is on Saturday. They’ve rented out an entire restaurant in Silver Lake, patio and all, and it’s far from an intimate affair—so Eddie invites Stanley. When Eddie walks in the door and doesn’t recognize a single person, he’s glad he did. The two of them spend most of the first hour huddled together in the corner, snatching glasses of wine and appetizers off passing trays, and pointing out B- and C-list celebrities to each other. 

He’s beginning to wonder if he’s even at the right place, when he spots Richie walk past, an appetizer in each hand. 

Eddie flags him down. “Hey, hey! Richie!” 

“Oh, hey, Eds,” Richie greets, flashing a grin. “You seen the happy couple? I might just make an appearance, grab a few more apps, and dip.” He pauses. “Dip as in leave. But if they have any dip, I’ll take some, too.” 

Eddie laughs out loud and both Richie and Stan seem surprised by the reaction. Then he grabs one of Richie’s arms and turns back to Stan. “Hey! Richie, this is Stanley. Stan, Richie. Two of my best friends! You’re gonna love each other.” After a moment of silence, Stan and Richie staring dubiously at each other, Eddie adds, “You’re both from the Midwest!”

They narrow their eyes at each other. Stan says, “Where?”

“Minnesota and Wisconsin,” Eddie says, gesturing to Richie and Stan respectively.

They both look like they’ve discovered they’re in the company of a murderer. 

“I grew up in Milwaukee,” Stan elaborates, and Richie’s hackles visibly lower. 

“Oh, okay, that’s cool,” Richie says. “Isn’t Waukesha County the fucking worst?”

Stanley’s eyes go wide and he all but shouts, “It’s the fucking _worst!_” 

They yell about politics for a while, both wild-eyed and more venomous-looking than usual. Eddie takes a step back and lets them do that, content that they’re—probably—bonding. 

When Bill and Audra walk past a few minutes later, Richie and Stan are for some reason engaged in a serious discussion about regional transportation planning; Eddie flags them down, a welcome distraction. Audra hugs him and kisses his cheek, and Bill does some manly shoulder-bump thing, and Eddie introduces them both to Stanley, silently threatening to kill him if he doesn’t act normal. Stanley acts normal; in fact, he compliments Audra on some obscure indie film she was in, and that gets them talking like old friends in no time. 

“So,” Bill says, one hand on Eddie and Richie’s shoulders. “I’m getting married.”

“I heard,” Richie says.

“Nice fake proposal photos, by the way,” Eddie says. “I saw them on Instagram.”

“Well, Audra told me that people don’t get engaged without hiring a photographer these days, and since I didn’t have a ring the first time, we figured why not…” He waves a hand dismissively. “Anyway, I’d like to ask both of you to be groomsmen.”

There’s a beat of silence before Richie mumbles, “Is that the dude version of a bridesmaid?”

Eddie’s stomach flips, but not in a bad way. “I’d be honored.” 

“And Eddie.” Bill places both hands firmly on Eddie’s shoulders and looks him in the eye. “I know this is a lot to ask, but would you be my best man? You haven’t been back in my life for very long, but I don’t know what I’d do without you. You’re like a brother to me—”

“Yes,” Eddie says, starting to feel at risk of tearing up. “Yes, of course.” 

“Thanks, man.” Bill turns back to Richie. “So, what about you, Rich? Do you accept?” 

Richie drops the jokey front for once, smiles and says, “Yeah, I’d be happy to.”

“Great.” Bill gives them each a parting shoulder-slap and begins to back away, pulling Audra along and toward the next guests to whom they need to give a regimented amount of attention. “Start planning the bachelor party now,” he says with a wink. 

Once Bill is gone in the crowd, Richie says, “Does he really want to put two homos in charge of his bachelor party? Like, sorry dude, we’re going to a gay club.” 

Eddie snorts. “Can you imagine Bill at a gay club?” 

“We should buy him a lap dance, it might awaken something in him.” 

Again, Eddie laughs harder than he probably should, steadying himself on Richie’s arm. Richie looks down at him, amused, as Eddie takes a step back and clears his throat. 

“Well. My duty has been fulfilled.” Richie raises his appetizer-filled hands. “I think I’ll take these for the road. Nice to meet you, Stanley.”

“Okay, have a good night, Richie,” Eddie calls after him. “Don’t forget the dip.”

Richie snorts and throws him another smile as he makes his way through the crowd. Eddie wishes he could have gotten another goodbye hug, but Richie’s hands were full. It also stings a bit that Richie seemed like he was in such a hurry to leave. Maybe he has to work, or he has plans, or a date, or something. 

_Don’t forget the dip_, Eddie thinks to himself, cringing. _Goddamn it._

As Eddie stares after Richie’s retreating form, he can feel Stan’s unimpressed eyes on him. After a moment, all he says is, “Wow.” 

Eddie says, “Shut up.”

“You’re just—”

“I know.” Eddie waits until Richie is completely out of sight. Then he turns back to Stan and says, “I’ve been having kind of a weird week vis-a-vis Richie. First Mike matches with him on Tinder—”

Stan says, “_What?!_”

“—and then we went on this friend date, and he was sort of maybe flirting with this Russian mobster who owns a boba tea place right in front of me? It was weird. And I think I’m really starting to go insane, I should have never admitted to you that I kind of like him because that’s always the beginning of the end—” 

Stan says, “_What?_” again with a kind of intense precision that’s more effective than yelling. 

“Yeah, have you been to NoHo Boba?” 

“No, shut up, shut up,” Stan says, shaking his head in exasperation. “Mike? Mike Hanlon?” 

“Yeah, he’s bi now.” 

“No, I know, he practically announced it to the entire office, but him and Richie?” 

Eddie shrugs. “I mean, I don’t think ‘him and Richie,’ they just matched on Tinder. Which begs the question, what is he doing actively using Tinder if he’s apparently ‘dating’ this Nick guy?” 

Stan stares back at him for a long second, nonreactive. Then: “Wrong use of ‘begs the question.’” 

Eddie blinks. “I know. I _know_, I’m a fucking lawyer, I was using it colloquially.” 

“Oh, you were using it colloquially?” 

“You’re such a fucking asshole,” Eddie grumbles. “I’m not sending you the recommendation letter I wrote, and it’s really good. So, good luck getting into UC Davis or whatever.” 

“Oh, fuck off, it’s one of the public Ivies.” 

Stan and Eddie leave not too long after that; but not before following someone around the party who looks a lot like Broadway actor Aaron Tveit and snatching a few more drinks. When Eddie drives home later, after dropping off a significantly more drunk Stan, he’s happy to realize he feels the way one should about a friend’s engagement. He doesn’t hold any misplaced jealousy or resentment; any trepidation about their relationship not working out has subsided as well. He's happy for them, genuinely, and excited to be included in their wedding. Whatever feelings he had, or thought he had, for Bill weren't real, just some kind of lingering childhood yearning. Of course, he thinks, it also helps to have a new outlet for his messier feelings. 

It’s easy to get over someone when you have a replacement.


	6. Sonia Kaspbrak descends on Los Angeles.

The month of December flies by. Between year-end reports, accounting, and budgeting for the next year, Eddie puts in a lot of late nights at the office. And because it’s a relatively small law firm, he’s personally responsible for more accounting and budgeting than he has been in years. But it’s not all bad. It’s kind of nice getting into the nitty gritty; Eddie has always found this type of work satisfying. 

The Friday before the holidays, he’s sitting around the conference table with Mike and Stanley, printed out spreadsheets and Thai takeout spread around them, finishing up their work before a much-needed break. 

Mike, and Eddie to a lesser extent, are of the mind that ‘good enough’ exists, so really, it’s Stan’s fault that they end up digging through the year’s expenditures until eight o’clock. Eventually Mike puts an end to it. They’ll look at their work with fresh eyes in the new year, and finalize everything. 

As they begin to clean up the table, Mike asks, “What are your holiday plans?”

“Looking forward to some downtime to relax and, you know, be Jewish,” Stan says with a smile.

“Oh, right,” Mike says. “What about you, Eddie? Wait, you’re not Jewish, are you?” 

Stan snorts; he’s told Eddie before that he has ‘raised Catholic’ written all over him. And he wasn’t; he grew up in the Methodist church, but he figures that’s a fair assessment. 

Eddie shakes his head. “No, no. My mom is flying in tomorrow, so we’ll be spending Christmas together.”

He must not have effectively disguised his dismay because Mike stops shuffling papers to look at him with real concern. “Not looking forward to it?”

Eddie shrugs. “Well, I knew I wasn’t gonna get out of it just by moving across the country. She even made me buy her a first class plane ticket.” He rolls his eyes and begins to close up the take-out containers.

“‘Made you’?” Stan says. “What do you mean, she ‘made you’? You’re, what, thirty-five? Can’t you say no?” 

“Well, you know parents,” Eddie says. “The constant guilt-tripping and like, manipulation… Sometimes it’s easier to just not fight it.” 

Mike raises his eyebrows. “You might have a skewed idea of what normal parents are like.” 

He’s aware. Obviously he’s aware. He’s even been to therapy once or twice. But there’s a gulf between consciously knowing something is a problem and doing anything about it. When he replies, he aims for nonchalance, wanting to end the conversation: “Well, it was just me and her for a long time so there’s this weird… dependency. And, you know, she needs me. I’m all she has. I can’t begrudge her that.”

After a moment of quiet, Mike says, back to a chipper tone, “Well, I’m visiting my mom and my uncle and his family. It’s nice getting out of the city. Might even see some snow. Of course I won’t have any cell service most of the time, but I like being off the grid once in a while…”

While they divvy up the leftovers and turn out the lights and leave the office, Mike continues on about Christmases at the Hanlon family ranch; apparently the tradition is to slaughter a lamb for dinner, which Eddie finds vaguely horrifying but Mike assures him puts them more in touch with their food. 

“Isn’t that kind of ironic?” Stan asks while they loiter near their cars in the parking lot. 

Mike tilts his head. “How so?”

“Well.” Stan fidgets with his keys, clicking the door unlocked and locked again. “You’re celebrating the birth of Jesus—the lamb of God, yeah?—by… killing a lamb? Isn’t that, like, mixed messages? Or is it more of a lamb for a lamb situation?” 

Mike furrows his brow and exchanges a look with Eddie. Eddie shakes his head and frowns, communicating ‘I dunno.’ 

Then Mike says, “Lambs are more Easter imagery, anyway.”

Eddie adds, “Well, we also eat his body and drink his blood, so that’s kinda par for the course.”

“Yeah, I forget how fucking weird you all are,” Stan says. 

Chuckling mildly, they each take a few more steps away from each other and toward their cars. Eddie calls out, “Mike, how old were you when you first killed a sheep?” meaning it as a joke, but Mike doesn’t bat an eye as he replies, “Twelve.” 

“Jesus,” Eddie and Stan mutter in unison. 

+

On Saturday afternoon, Eddie picks up his mother from the airport. She’s standing outside on the sidewalk when he pulls up to the curb and parks, her face red and sweaty and fanning herself with a magazine. Eddie hops out of the car, engine running, and hurriedly greets her before hauling her suitcase and carry-on into the trunk. Both are absurdly heavy. 

The first thing Sonia says is, “I hope your car has air conditioning, I’ve been standing here in the sun for twenty minutes.”

It’s a ridiculous comment. Of course Eddie’s car has air conditioning; you’d be hard-pressed to find even a used car these days without it. His 2019 model even has seat cooling, a feature that seemed to be the height of luxury at first, but to which he’s now grown accustomed. 

But Eddie doesn’t say any of that. Instead, he pleasantly asks, “How was your flight?” as he slides into the driver’s seat and pulls away from the pick-up zone. 

And she complains about that, too. They don’t treat you right on airplanes anymore, not even in first class. The food is no good and you have to pay extra for drinks. She had the window seat, and she had to get up to use the restroom three times and the gentleman next to her had the nerve to act annoyed. And of course, the entire cabin is full of recirculated germs, and she could hear some pleb in coach hacking up a lung. 

“When I was a girl, I flew to Germany with my family, and people dressed up for it,” she tells Eddie. “That was the 60s and people had class. Now you should see what people wear to airports. Sweatpants, Eddie. No wonder they treat you like animals. You know, they used to serve you a complete meal, complimentary. Drinks, too.” 

Eddie nods and hums absently. The next five days have a decent chance of killing him. He tried to convince her to fly in on the 24th and out on the 26th, but she seemed aghast at the concept of traveling on Christmas. So, here she is, staying with him for five nights, and Eddie has no good excuses to get away from her for even a moment. 

Sonia is quiet for a few minutes, mercifully, before she lets out a rueful sighs and says, “Having no snow for Christmas, I can’t imagine it. It’s not right.”

Eddie grits his teeth and tightens his grip on the steering wheel before he says, “Mom, back home we often have no snow for Christmas.”

New England Christmases tend to be gray and sleety, which in his opinion is worse than either a white Christmas or a sunny dry heat. 

“But it’s so _warm_,” she says, like it’s a morally bankrupt thing. “Don’t you think the cold builds character? This is why California is the way it is.”

He doesn’t have to ask what way that is. 

Eddie drives them back to his townhouse, which he spent the entire morning cleaning, more throughly than he has since he moved in. He scrubbed the bathtub and dusted the baseboards and cleaned the inside of the fridge. 

He assumed that his mother wouldn’t be satisfied with sleeping on the couch or an air mattress, so he changed the sheets on his bed and cleared out any personal belongings he didn’t want her snooping through, hiding them on the highest shelf in the hall closet. Not that he has a lot of contraband. Some of it is quite innocuous: a couple nonfiction books with ideas that he doesn’t feel like discussing with his mother, and even his running shoes. It’s silly and he feels stupid and cowardly for it, but he’s not up to having his mother tell him that he really shouldn’t be running, not with his asthma—he doesn’t have asthma—and that it’s bad on your knees to run on pavement. (He needs to start acting his age, and if he wants to exercise, maybe he should try water aerobics; it’s easier on the joints. It’s what Sonia does, once a week at her private health club. Not at the Y of course, the water there is filthy.) 

And, for obvious reasons, he hides his small and so far since moving to L.A. (and for a good while before that) unused assortment of condoms and lube in a box and shoves it all the way against the wall, behind another box. And he hides the step ladder behind the refrigerator. It makes him feel paranoid, but the routine is familiar. 

So, after a few hours of work, his house was Sonia Kaspbrak-proof. Or as close to it as it could be. 

Of course, she found reasons to complain anyway. Apparently the floors are cheap linoleum, and the appliances are old, and Eddie’s last apartment was so nice, and he was lucky to have found something like that in Manhattan, and he should have never given it up, and he’s far too old to only have a one-bedroom, he should have a guest bedroom for his mother to visit. 

Eddie drags her suitcase upstairs to the bedroom and she doesn’t follow him, but he can hear her opening drawers in the kitchen downstairs. He grunts with effort as he slings the suitcase up onto the foot of the bed, then takes a couple moments to collect himself before he goes back downstairs. 

Sonia is standing in his living room, frowning at the sofa and coffee table. “You need a rug.”

“Well.” Eddie crosses his arms and assesses the room with her. He sort of agrees that a rug will bring the room together.

“Let’s go buy a rug for you,” she says.

Eddie shrugs. “Okay.” They’ve got nothing better to do. He considered taking her by the office, showing her where he works, but then he remembered the strip-mall setting and slight mildew smell and thought better of it. She doesn’t care about ‘liberal Hollywood’ so she has no interest in movie set tours or the walk of stars or any of the other touristy shit they could do this weekend.

Maybe they can grab lunch while they’re out, but he doesn’t know where. She doesn’t like Korean or Mexican, which severely limits their options around here. 

They end up at a cafe, and Sonia asks him what he recommends, and Eddie admits he’s never been here before. Over soup and sandwiches, Sonia guilts him about not coming home for Thanksgiving: “My first Thanksgiving without my son. Your aunt and I were so lonely. We made all your favorites. The stuffing with sage, green bean casserole. How was your Thanksgiving? Were you alone?”

Eddie considers his answer while he takes a few bites of his sandwich. “No, uh. Do you remember my friend Bill from summer camp?”

She shakes her head, which is unsurprising. 

“Well, turns out he lives in L.A. so we’ve reconnected. And his girlfriend—fiancee now—her family lives in Santa Barbara, so they invited me along.”

“Oh.” Sonia’s face is pinched. “That’s nice.”

“Yeah.” Eddie clears his throat. Part of him wants to drop it, not make this situation any more uncomfortable than it already is, but another part of him thinks _fuck it_. He has friends here and he’s happy and he wants his mom to know it, even if it upsets her. Maybe especially if it upsets her. “He’s a writer now. Bill Denbrough, look him up. And his fiancee is Audra Phillips, she’s an actress. You’ve probably seen her in stuff. She’s great, super nice. She’s asked me to help with some of her contracts. And I’m going to be best man in their wedding this summer.” 

His mom looks thoroughly unimpressed. “Sounds like you’re really living the Hollywood lifestyle.” 

Eddie knows it’s not a compliment. Far from it. He gives up trying to infuriate her or impress her or whatever he was trying to do, and talks about his job instead. He might exaggerate a little. He says he’s making close to what he was making in New York, but the cost of living is lower so he gets to save more (a half-truth), and he exaggerates the size of his biggest client, a regional bank. None of that impresses her either. Instead, she starts talking about one of her friend’s son, who’s a couple years younger than Eddie, and he was just made partner at his law firm, and his wife is expecting their second child. 

She never blatantly asks about Eddie’s love life, and that’s one thing about their relationship that Eddie is thankful for. But at the same time, he’s a little offended. Maybe he’s paranoid, but he worries that she knows, that she’s always known, and that she doesn’t ask because she doesn’t want the confirmation. 

Not that he wants to talk about it with her. He plans on burying his mother before coming out to her. But her avoidance of this topic in particular, when she’s so nosy about everything else, seems meaningful. Although maybe it’s not only that topic. For all her overbearingness, she never inquires after his happiness. 

An hour later, they’re standing in IKEA, looking at area rugs.

His mother hates IKEA, as she made sure to tell him while they were driving there and while they were parking and while they were riding the escalator up to the showroom. He doesn’t know if the hatred stems from elitism or a general hatred of Scandinavian exports, and he doesn’t care to find out. 

“You buy furniture that you have to assemble?”

“I’m buying a rug, mom. No assembly required.” 

And choosing the rug is no easy task, either. Sonia has opinions about the quality and the price, while Eddie mostly tries to find one with a nice texture and pattern. 

While she’s telling him that the rug he’s gravitated toward is ‘gaudy,’ Eddie’s phone buzzes in his pocket. 

He pulls it out, a welcome distraction, and sees Richie’s name: _want to meet at noho boba in an hour?_

For a brief malicious moment, Eddie considers bringing his mom there. Then he sighs and texts back: _I’m stuck with my mother all weekend._ He adds an eye roll emoji for good measure. 

Richie types for a few moments, then stops, then starts again. It takes long enough that Sonia stops talking about the rug and pointedly says, “Sorry, am I keeping you from something?”

Eddie puts his phone in his pocket. “Work,” he lies, and grabs one of the rolled-up rugs with the colorful and busy pattern that he likes. The rest of his decor is pretty plain, and he wants something to liven things up.

His mom says, “That’s going to clash with your furniture. It clashes with _itself_.” 

He shrugs, and says with an emphasis on the first-person pronouns: “I like it. And I’m buying it for my place.”

Sonia huffs but doesn’t argue for once.

While they wait in the check-out line, Eddie checks his phone again. Richie replied: _you know, one of my side gigs is playing deadbeat boyfriend to piss off people’s moms_

Eddie snorts a laugh before he can stifle it. He angles his phone away from his mom’s prying eyes as he types: _Omg. I might take you up on that._

The line moves along, so Eddie pockets his phone again. 

By the time they’re back at home, it’s only late afternoon and Eddie is staring down the barrel of the rest of the evening with his mom. (And the next four days, but he can’t think about that or he might walk into traffic.) He has no idea what he’s going to do with her. 

While she watches, unhelpfully, he moves his furniture, lays down the rug, and moves the furniture back. He likes how it looks. The orange and blue and yellow brighten up the space.

Sonia huffs with disapproval, but sits down on his couch, right in the middle, taking up most of it. So Eddie sits on a chair instead. 

Then they just watch TV for a while. They both like HGTV, so it’s not awful. But he forgot that most of his mom’s enjoyment in watching house hunting and renovations shows comes from judging the tastes of others. In general, he forgot this constant, suffocating negativity that pervades everything Sonia says and does. Maybe, when he was younger, he would sometimes find a perverse pleasure in joining her, feeling superior to everyone else. Smarter, with more refined tastes; scoffing at popular music and movies. But now, he finds, he doesn’t have the stomach for it. 

Half an episode into House Hunters International, he pulls out his phone to text Richie: _I hate to do this to you, but do you want to come over for dinner with my mom and I?_

Richie’s reply is immediate: _am i your bf?_

Eddie hides his smile behind a hand. _Just friend for now. I promise that will be infuriating enough to her._

_i know i just offered to do this but that kinda stings_

When the doorbell rings a while later, Eddie is in the middle of making dinner. He’s trying his hand at homemade pierogi, figuring his mom will appreciate the effort at recreating a Kaspbrak family Christmas tradition. But expecting Sonia to appreciate anything was a mistake. As he diligently follows the recipe off his laptop, she sits at the kitchen counter and comments that he’s overstuffing them and that they’ll burst in the boiling water. 

Eddie’s hands are flour-coated when he goes to answer the door. 

“Is it a solicitor?” his mom calls after him.

Eddie opens the door and his shoulders droop with relief when he sees Richie. God, he wants to hug him. Richie’s eyes float down to Eddie’s apron and a smile springs to his face. “Oh, I love this already.” 

“Thank you for coming,” Eddie says quietly. “You’re gonna be the last thing tethering me to my sanity for the next few hours.”

“Always glad to help the cause.” 

Eddie leads Richie back into the kitchen and Sonia stares at them expectantly. 

“Mom, this is my friend, Richie. Richie, my mom, Sonia.” 

Nothing in her expression softens. Unfazed, Richie steps toward her and offers his hand. “Great to meet the woman responsible for this guy.” After another moment of hesitation, she shakes his hand, and corrects: “Mrs. Kaspbrak.”

Then Richie puts his hands on his hips and looks at the pierogi assembly station and says, “So what have we got cooking here?” 

Richie is an effective tension-diffuser, cheerfully ignoring any passive-aggressive comments and filling any awkward silences. He also helps with the pierogi, but he’s not as effective at that. Eddie assigns him the boiling, fishing the pierogi out of the pot with a strainer once they float to the surface. 

When they sit down around the table, Eddie realizes not having a side dish was an oversight. But whatever. He prepared three different fillings and he made the dough this morning, and it’s not like putting in more work would garner him any more appreciation. 

While they eat, Richie blathers on about his own plans for the holidays—he’s flying home on Christmas Eve to see his parents; his sister is with the in-laws this year, so he’ll be getting all the attention, happily—and he recommends fun L.A. Christmastime activities for Eddie and his mom to do. Sing-alongs, light shows, a parade, indoor ice skating. Each suggestion is more comically outlandish than the previous. Eddie imagines his mom ice skating for a few wild seconds.

The best thing about having Richie around is that Sonia doesn’t say much of anything. Neither does Eddie. There’s not much chance to. And Eddie wouldn’t have it any other way. He owes Richie big time for this. 

After dinner, while Eddie clears the dishes, his mom excuses herself to the bathroom. It’s the first time they’ve had a moment to themselves since Richie came inside over an hour ago, and they exchange a meaningful look. 

“Thank you,” Eddie says. “I needed a break.”

“This is just day one,” Richie says, eyes sympathetic. “Are you gonna make it?” 

“I don’t know.” 

Richie helps load the dishwasher and Eddie relishes the proximity as they lean over each other and pass off dishes, working in tandem. 

When Eddie’s mom returns a few minutes later, she stays standing in the threshold of the kitchen. 

“Eddie,” she says, voice sharp enough that he looks up with alarm, heart already pounding in his chest. “Are you not on your medications anymore?” 

Eddie’s grip tightens on the plate he’s holding; his blood rushes through his ears and he doesn’t look at Richie standing next to him, feels his eyes on him. 

Now _this_ was an oversight. He was more worried about hiding the things that he has in his house, that he forgot to worry about the things that he doesn’t have. And if he knows his mom, she just looked through his sparse medicine cabinet. 

“I knew it,” Sonia says, and she’s not angry. She sounds sad, gentle; the kind of tone that always got him to give up, stop fighting. “I knew this was another one of your nervous breakdowns.” She’s crossed the kitchen now and she reaches for his arm. “Eddie-bear, we’re going to a doctor and we’re gonna get you back on your prescription, okay?” 

Eddie jerks his arm back and she inhales sharply. “No,” he says, still holding the wet plate in front of him like a shield. “No, and don’t call me ‘Eddie-bear.’ I’m an adult, and if you want to be in my life, you need to respect me and you need to respect my decisions. I didn’t want it to come to this and I’ve really tried, but now you have a choice to make.”

Eddie pauses for only a moment before he reaches to grab Richie’s hand. “And Richie is not my _friend_, he’s my boyfriend.” He raises their clasped hands, and concludes, “So, there’s that.”

His mom raises a hand to her mouth in a kind of delicate horror that stings more than he expects it to. She takes a step back, away from them, and shakes her head scornfully. “I didn’t want it to come to this, either. But you did this. _You_ chose this, Eddie.” 

Eddie stays very still, standing hand-in-hand with Richie, as she goes upstairs. He can hear the floorboards creaking around in his bedroom. Richie squeezes his hand; Eddie doesn’t look at him. Then there’s the determined clunking of the suitcase coming down the stairs, one step at a time.

When his mom returns to the kitchen, Eddie finally lets go of Richie’s hand, but Richie doesn’t step away from him. Instead he places his hand on the small of Eddie’s back, a light hovering touch. 

Sonia looks flushed with the effort of carrying the suitcase on her own. She clutches her purse at her side and doesn’t meet his eye as she says, “Will you call me a cab? I’m going to spend Christmas with my sister.”

Eddie deflates. “Mom. Really?” 

“You’ve made your priorities clear.” Her nostrils flare with the slightest hint of anger. 

Eddie’s throat feels dry; he tries to swallow. “Okay. Fine.” He fumbles out his phone. 

“Not Uber,” she says. “Call me a real cab. You know what they do to people in Ubers. It’s on the news.” 

“What—?” Eddie shakes his head, his own anger beginning to rise in his chest. “No, you’re taking an Uber or you can find your own ride. ‘What they do to people’—what does that even mean?” 

“Sexual assault, Edward,” she says, eyes flashing. 

“Jesus,” Eddie says, lifting a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Well, I’m sure it’s very rare.” 

“Is that all I deserve?” she fires back. “A rare chance of sexual assault? And you’ll be saying the same thing when you put me in a home. ‘I’m sure it’s very rare, mom, don’t worry.’ I always knew you would abandon me.” 

Eddie gives up and lets her verbal attacks roll off his back as he orders the Uber and carries her luggage the rest of the way to the door. Richie stays a few steps behind him, lurking in the hallway, silent. 

“Three minutes away,” Eddie says to her. He meets her eyes for a moment, sees that they’re shiny with tears, and quickly looks away. “Wait, I have—”

Eddie dashes to the hall closet and grabs a wrapped box from the shelf. His mother’s Christmas gift. It’s earrings and a necklace; simple, but elegant and not cheap. She was always hard to shop for, never showed much gratitude for anything, but she likes nice things, always did. 

“You might as well take this,” he says, holding the box out to her. “Merry Christmas.” 

She scrubs her blotchy face with her sleeve, and lets out a sob. “Eddie…”

“Your car’s here,” Eddie says curtly, and he grabs the suitcase and leads the way out the door. 

When Eddie returns, he closes and locks the door behind him. Then he collapses backward against it, exhausted, eyes closed for a moment.

He hears Richie sigh, a tense, uncomfortable sound. “What a piece of work.” 

Somehow, that reaction is the saddest and funniest thing Eddie’s ever heard; he begins to laugh, hysterically. 

“Whoa,” Richie says, alarmed. He puts a hand on Eddie’s shoulder, hovering around him as if he’s broken down in tears and not in laughter. But, Eddie thinks, that’s probably the appropriate reaction given the circumstances. “I’m sorry,” Richie says softly, rubbing circles against his back. “That sucked.” 

“Yeah.” Eddie wipes his eyes, beginning to calm down. “Yeah, it did. Thanks.” He takes a few steps away from the door, and sits down on the bottom of the stairs, sighing heavily. “We didn’t even make it twelve hours. I guess I cleaned my entire apartment for nothing.”

Richie haltingly moves to sit down beside him, resting his elbows on his knees as he leans forward. “I assume you weren’t… out to her… beforehand.”

Eddie shakes his head. “Fuck, no. And, uh, sorry for dragging you into—”

“No,” Richie cuts him off. “Don’t apologize. I live for being a pawn in my friends’ family drama.” He’s quiet for a moment, then he says, “You’re gonna be alone on Christmas.”

“Better than being with my mom.” Eddie lets out a laugh; it trembles slightly as more tension escapes him. “Maybe I’ll see what Stan and Patty are up to.” 

“Yeah.” Richie fidgets for a second, twisting his hands together. “Or do you— Uh. I’m going home. Do you wanna come with?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> … I don’t know what this says about me, but writing Mrs. K. was like … the most fun thing about this fic so far.


	7. Christmas with Richie!

Richie’s direct flight was already full, unsurprisingly, but Eddie found his way there, routing from LAX to O’Hare to MSP, only arriving an hour and a half later than Richie. Richie promised to wait for him at the airport. Eddie’s asked him a million times: Are you sure this is okay? Are you sure this won’t be weird? I’m not intruding? And Richie has said a million times: yes, I'm sure, my parents are chill, and they’ll love you.

When Eddie emerges from the jetway and into the airport, it’s late afternoon on Christmas Eve and Richie is sitting on a row of chairs by himself, feet up, with two paper coffee cups resting on the seat next to him. He spots Eddie and stands up, smiling warmly and offering him the coffee. 

Eddie accepts and thanks him and says his flight was okay. Richie tells him about the movie he watched on his own flight and as they walk through the airport he goes on, asking Eddie if he remembers when planes would only show one movie at a time on a little screen overhead that you could hardly see and you’d have to plug into the audio jack in the armrest and you could hardly hear anything. Then he must be on some kind of roll, maybe he has pent-up energy from being alone all day, because then he’s saying, “Remember the first generation of earbuds and how they were just… circles? And they wouldn’t fit in your ears? It’s not like there weren’t ears around in, like, 2001 to test prototypes on. How come it took them so long to figure out that a thing that goes into a hole should be the shape of that hole? Even toddlers are onto that shit.”

Eddie feels sort of travel-dazed so he just nods and chuckles as he follows Richie. 

Richie has rented a car, and while they stand in line at the Hertz desk he says, “I know it’s overkill, my parents could have picked us up, but this way we can make a quick escape if we need to.” He doesn’t let that settle before he holds his hands up and says, “_Kidding_.” 

So, Richie seems a little high-strung. Performative, anyway. Eddie figures it might just be the usual nerves about the holidays and seeing family, now with the wildcard addition of a tagalong. 

Then, keys in hand, Richie runs out to the parking lot. And he does _run_. Eddie brought a winter coat, but Richie didn’t, for some reason that probably has to do with him being a lovable idiot, so he’s in a hooded sweatshirt, hands shoved into his pockets. It’s a good ten degrees below freezing, and the air is crisp and leaves a clean burn in his lungs that Eddie almost missed. 

His fingers also itch for his inhaler, but of course he threw it away months ago. 

As Eddie chases after Richie’s waddling form, he calls out, “Why didn’t you bring a coat?”

“I leave it at my parents’!” he yells back.

The car is a brand new Chevy Malibu, and after Richie spends a few minutes saying “I hate this fucking shit,” about the push-button ignition and side mirrors that automatically fold in when parked—maybe the righteous anger toward luxury is a Midwest thing, Eddie thinks—they’re on the road. Soon, they’re following the river south, the low sun glaring off the icy blacktop. 

Eddie checks his phone; nothing new except for a few emails. He hesitates for only a moment before snapping a picture of the snowy landscape out the window and sending it to Stan: _So… I’m going to Richie’s for Christmas…_

Stan’s reply comes back quickly: _OH MY GOD. This is it._ Then, a second later: _Patty says “have sex in his childhood bedroom, that’s the height of romance”_

Eddie bursts into laughter, unable to contain it. 

Richie side-eyes him. “Wanna share something with the class, Kaspbrak?” 

Eddie shakes his head as types back: _Is it?_

“Just talking to Stan,” he explains. 

“Ah,” Richie says. He taps his fingers on the steering wheel. “Stan’s a cool dude. Stanley. Staniel. Stannis… Baratheon. Oh, and I saw your boss on Tinder, by the way. Is he gay?” 

Eddie blinks, taking a second to catch up with the leaps of association. “Bi.” 

“Oh, very modern. Good for him.”

As they keep driving, Richie fills him in on his parents: Wentworth and Maggie Tozier.

“Wentworth?” Eddie repeats, not sure whether Richie’s fucking with him. 

“You can call him Went, don’t worry,” Richie says. “They retired two years ago, but he was a dentist and she managed the business side of things.” 

“Do you think he’d look at my teeth if I ask?” 

Richie grimaces. “He really would. He’d be thrilled, in fact. Please don’t ask. “

“Was your dad your dentist growing up?” 

“Obviously. You think as a six year old I was like, well, thanks mom and dad, but I’m going to shop around, see what my options are.” 

“So, do you have, like, really good teeth?” 

Richie flashes him a grin. “Is that a turn-on, Eds?” 

(It kind of is.) Eddie feels his face heat. “I have higher standards than that,” he says. (He doesn’t.) “I’m just making conversation.”

“But yeah, I do actually,” Richie says with an almost rueful sigh. “I was cheated out of the childhood rite of passage of getting your first cavity. And my dad scared me to death about gingivitis so I still floss every day, like a fucking… cop.” 

“I don’t have any cavities either,” Eddie says. He also flosses daily, but he keeps that to himself for now. 

“Well, aren’t we a couple of geeks,” Richie laments. “And my sister worked as his dental assistant in high school and she was _so_ not qualified. She would lean over me, elbows digging into my chest and hand my dad the sharpest tools she could find. People joke about dentists being sadists, but if you haven’t had a family member clean your teeth, you ain’t seen nothing.” He pauses to pass a minivan that’s doing a slow 55 before he continues, “My sister is six years older than me. Did I ever tell you I have a niece? She’s gonna be… seven, I think. Or eight? They all live in North Dakota so I don’t see them very often.” 

“Do people live in North Dakota?” Eddie asks dryly. 

“Oh, geez.” Richie slides into an upper Midwestern cadence. “Fargo’s not too bad, you know.”

The Toziers’ house is less than an hour from the airport, in a sleepy and very blue-collar river town. They stop by a grocery store beforehand so Eddie can buy a couple things, not about to show up empty-handed. Richie steers him toward a mid-range bottle of Pinot Noir (“fastest way to my dad’s heart”) and a few things for the appetizer spread: some decent brie and fancy crackers. 

“Get the caramelized onion kind,” Richie instructs. “They’re, like, eight dollars a box but my mom _will_ marry you.” 

“Is that the goal of this?” 

“Yeah, I’m in the market for a new dad.” 

It’s after dark when they arrive; the house is a modest foursquare, blue siding, icicle lights hanging off the awning above the front porch. Richie parks in the driveway and when the side mirrors fold in automatically he groans and says, “I fucking _hate_ that.” They’re grabbing their bags from the trunk when the front door opens. 

Richie’s parents greet them on the porch, hugging Richie and then Eddie before ushering them inside. Maggie has short brown hair and wears conservative make-up and pearl earrings. She’s small and soft-spoken and smiles when Eddie presents her with his grocery store finds: “I _love_ these crackers.” 

Wentworth is around the same height as Richie, an inch or two over six feet. His hair and mustache are graying, and he wears large wire-rim glasses. Eddie gives him a keener look, to get an idea of how Richie might age. Besides the thinning hair and bald spot, par for the course at sixty-five, it looks like a pretty bright future. 

Silly, he knows, to think about Richie thirty years from now, but here he is, at his childhood home, meeting the parents. Can’t blame him for getting a bit carried away. 

As Went leads them inside, Eddie catches a glimpse of Richie three decades in the opposite direction; the hallway is lined with framed pictures of the family. 

Eddie nudges Richie with his elbow and points to one. Richie groans in embarrassment. The photo is of Richie, at probably five years old, with a dark head of curls and no glasses yet, grinning at the camera in that wild-eyed way only small children can. He looks like he might have been raised by a pack of wolves in the forest he’s standing in.

“The beds are ready,” Maggie says. “Eddie can stay in Monica’s room.”

Richie leads him upstairs, and there are more photos on the hallway walls there; a trip to Disney World, high school and college graduations, the family together at his sister, Monica’s wedding. Then a collage of relatively recent baby pictures, probably Richie’s niece. Eddie lingers, his smile growing with each one. There’s one photo of Richie at probably thirteen, all glasses and braces and lanky limbs; he poses holding a baritone, wearing a black shirt and bowtie. Eddie is _so_ glad he came. He takes out his phone to snap a picture. 

“Come on,” Richie beckons from the end of the hall. “You can look at the shrine later.”

“It’s cute,” Eddie says, sincerely. He likes this evidence of a functional, deeply normal family. 

The children’s bedrooms are not, well, children’s anymore—closer in resemblance to personality-free guest rooms. But there are a couple hints of the past here and there. The walls in Monica’s room are painted sky blue and purple, where the rest of the house leans on the off-whites. Eddie ducks his head into Richie’s room and spots a shelf full of comics, and one remaining poster where he assumes there used to be many more. 

Back downstairs, candles flicker and instrumental Christmas music plays. Went opens Eddie’s gifted Pinot, and Maggie starts assembling the appetizer spread; she has decorative holiday plates and bowls and the entire thing is so homey that Eddie could almost get choked up over it. 

Then Went starts asking Eddie questions faster than he can answer them: Where are you from? What do you do? How’d you meet Richie? The follow-up questions are even more rapid-fire, often cutting off Eddie’s last answer with a new question, but none of it comes off as unfriendly. Went just seems to have a lot of energy and maybe _not_ much of an attention span.

Somewhere in the midst of that, he confesses that his relationship with his mother is on the rocks at the moment—maybe forever, he realizes with a mix of dread of relief—and Maggie gives him a sad smile and says, “We’re happy to have you, Eddie.” 

Went pours four glasses of wine. Eddie and Maggie each take one. Then Richie says, “Dad, remember I don’t drink?”

Went nods and kind of rolls his eyes in a way that says, _okay, sure_, and Eddie gets the first hint of some undercurrent of tension. But it’s gone quickly when Maggie says, “That’s very responsible, Richie.” 

But maybe that’s a little condescending. Richie raids the fridge and comes back with some ginger ale and cranberry juice, which he mixes up for himself in a glass with a sprig of rosemary. 

They end up in the living room, sitting around a gas fireplace and chatting and eating. 

“It was a real wood fireplace when I was little,” Richie says, holding a hand over his heart. “I was so heartbroken when you replaced it.”

Maggie says, “Richie, remember when the fire got too hot and the glass shattered?” 

“Yeah, it was awesome,” Richie says. “That’s not gonna happen with a gas fireplace. Probably.”

Richie seems so perfectly comfortable around his parents. None of his mannerisms change, he doesn’t become more reserved or even get much of a filter, even though Maggie sighs every time Richie swears. All of this is unthinkable to Eddie, who grew up tending to two selves. He still feels like a social chameleon, reflecting whatever energy is given to him. Richie, on the other hand, has his own energy; he sets the frequency of any room he’s in. 

It doesn’t take long for Eddie to realize that Richie is very much like his dad. He and Went like a lot of the same things, music and movies, and they have a similar sense of humor, the kind that can throw people off-kilter. Around each other, it seems to escalate to absurd levels, where it’s not clear whether they are joking, let alone what the joke is. 

And they both have energies. The room is loud with both of them in it. 

They watch _It’s A Wonderful Life_, and it’s obvious that this family has watched the movie dozens of times over the years. The jokes are well-rehearsed, and Richie and Went’s voice impressions are not half bad.

During the movie, Went gets up a couple times to refill his wine glass. Later, when Maggie goes to the kitchen to put away the rest of the food, she holds up an empty wine bottle and calls out, “Is this the second bottle already? Would you save something for tomorrow?” Went doesn’t answer. 

The movie is over by nine. “Auld Lang Syne slaps,” Richie concludes as the credits roll. Eddie has to agree. Then Richie tries to explain what “slaps” means to his parents: “Yeah, like ‘this shit slaps.’” Went repeats it incredulously: “This shit slaps?”

Maggie sighs and says she has to turn in. Once she’s upstairs, Went opens a third bottle of wine and hijacks the TV, finding some old movie, a western. 

Richie and Eddie aren’t tired either, since it’s only nine and they’ve come from the west coast. After a few minutes of humoring Went’s comments about the movie, Richie has his phone out. “Hey,” he says to Eddie, next to him on the couch. “Wanna go meet up with a couple of my buddies from high school?” 

Eddie shrugs. It’s not where he expected the night to go, but it could be fun. “Sure.” 

Richie drives them a short ways to a small ranch house. He still doesn’t wear a coat, hands stuffed in his pockets and shoulders up to his ears while he waits for the door to be answered. Eddie is introduced to Kyle, who lives here with his wife and kids, and another friend, Will. Both are average looking dudes, in their mid 30s. Kyle has thinning red hair, and Will has a dark beard and a bit of beer belly. 

“Hey, Trashmouth Tozier! Long time no see,” Kyle greets Richie at the door. As he leads them into the basement, he asks, “How’s L.A.?” 

The basement is half unfinished with major man cave vibes: a ratty futon and flatscreen TV, a Minnesota Vikings flag pinned up to the wall. The cement floor is cold on Eddie’s socked feet; he eyes a space heater in the corner but it’s already turned up to high.

“Oh, you know, living the dream,” Richie answers. 

Will opens a mini fridge and offers them each a Bud Lite. Eddie declines, but Richie says, “Yeah, thanks,” and cracks it open. He takes a swig like it’s nothing. 

Eddie stares but Richie doesn’t meet his eye. 

They stand around for a while chatting, drinking. Eddie doesn’t input much, feeling wildly uncomfortable now and somewhat ignored and wondering why exactly Richie invited him along. He also doesn’t know what to do with his empty hands, suddenly understanding the social crutch of having a drink all too well. 

They talk about growing up here, teachers they hated. One art teacher in elementary school got the attention of her students by ringing a bell—and one day, Richie got his hands on the bell and removed the clapper, so the next time she tried to silence the unruly class, the bell shook soundlessly in her hand. 

“The look on her face,” Richie says, eyes glassy with reminiscence. “So worth the call home. I think my dad just thought it was funny, but my mom was upset.” 

Then they talk about high school parties, and trashing some kid Jake McNamara’s house. Apparently Richie may have downed an old bottle of perfume someone found in a closet.

“I don’t remember that,” he says, crushing his empty beer can. “But that sounds like me.”

To hear it, college was no less wild. Richie went to a small liberal arts school in St. Paul, but frequently partied with his friends at the U. 

At a few points in the storytelling, Kyle shushes Richie: “My kids are sleeping.” 

When Richie opens his second beer, he says, just as loudly: “I’m glad I got out of this shithole town.” 

Eddie winces slightly. Kyle and Will exchange a look. It doesn’t read fully as offense, maybe more as pity, and that only intensifies Eddie’s embarrassment on Richie’s behalf. 

“How’s the comedy, Trashmouth?” Kyle asks with an edge of a challenge. “Been doing more open mics?” 

Richie’s gaze narrows slightly, definitely picking up on it. “I get paid gigs about once a week.” 

Then Will asks, “Eddie, what do you do?”

Eddie jolts and looks up. “I—”

“He’s a lawyer,” Richie says. “He went to fucking Harvard.” 

“Seriously?” Kyle gives him an appraising look. “What are you doing hanging around this jackass?” 

Richie snorts, nudges him with him elbow and says, “Yeah, what _are_ you doing, Eds?”

Eddie smiles tightly, still gripped with discomfort but now it borders on irritation. He wants to say, _You invited me here, asshole. You tell me._ Instead, he says, “I don’t know.”

Before the second drinks are empty, Will digs a box of cigarettes and a lighter out of his pocket and holds them up, offering. 

“Yeah, alright,” Kyle says, smiling guiltily. “Don’t tell Jessica.”

Eddie follows the three of them upstairs and onto the front porch. He declines a cigarette and instead stands a couple feet away, gloved hand over his nose and mouth, partly to fend off the cold and party to filter out the smell. Eddie has smoked a handful of times in his life, during a couple rebellious phases, but not enough to transform the stale smell into anything alluring. Still, some lizard-brain part of him thinks, yeah, smoking _is_ kind of sexy, and under different circumstances he wouldn’t mind sharing a cigarette with Richie.

But, right now, Richie is being a complete dick.

Eddie sticks it out as long as he can, listening to their inane chatter, none of them making an effort to include him, before he says, “It’s fucking freezing. I’m going back inside.” 

Richie throws him a cursory glance and says, “Alright.” 

Eddie goes back to the basement, not sure where else to go in this stranger’s house, and sits on the shitty futon for ten minutes before he hears the door upstairs open and heavy footfalls overhead. He hears Richie say, “Where’d he go?” Then the basement light flickers a few times. “Eds, are you down there?” 

Eddie doesn’t answer but he does haul himself off the futon and show his face at the bottom of the stairs. He feels a bit like a moody teenager, but whatever. He’s certainly not the only one regressing. 

“Oh, there you are,” Richie says. His smile is infuriating. 

Eddie climbs the stairs and says it was nice to meet Kyle and Will—it was not—and wishes them a Merry Christmas. Then, when he and Richie get back in the car, Eddie asks, “Are you alright to drive?”

Richie makes a face. “Yeah, dude, Bud Lite is like, barely alcohol.” 

Eddie’s not all that concerned about the driving—after all, Richie only had two and they’re only going a half mile, Eddie’s done worse himself—but it’s an indirect way to bring up what he really wants to say, which is: _Why the fuck are you drinking again? And why are you acting like it’s not a big deal?_

The rest of the short drive is spent is silence. 

Back at the Tozier household, Went is still up and Richie joins him in the living room. They’re watching _2001: A Space Odyssey_ now, and doing HAL voices back and forth. Eddie hovers in the kitchen for a moment before he goes upstairs. 

Eddie brushes his teeth and gets into his pajamas, lost in thought all the while. That was… _weird_, right? With some distance now, he begins to worry he’s overthinking it, and the last thing he wants to do is come across as clingy or obsessed by confronting Richie about it but… He looks at himself in the mirror, his eyebrows furrowed.

“That was kinda fucked up,” he says softly to himself, reassuring his own read on the situation. Because it was. For Richie, mere hours after proclaiming his sobriety to his parents, to throw back a couple of beers with his ‘buddies,’ and especially for Richie to make Eddie witness all of it and refuse to acknowledge it. 

Eddie frowns and, after another moment, leaves the bathroom. 

+

In the morning, Eddie emerges downstairs for breakfast, already showered and fully dressed. The Toziers are still in their pajamas, making coffee and eggs and toast. Eddie says good morning and assures Maggie that he slept well and he pours himself a mug of coffee. Richie shoots him a glance and looks away just as quickly. 

While they eat breakfast around the kitchen table, Richie seems to be back in performance-mode. He tells stories of Christmases past, and the effort that his dad put into convincing a skeptical young Richie that Santa Claus is, in fact, real: “One year there was a perfect reindeer hoof print in the show, right on the deck. How did you do that, dad, by the way? Do you have a taxidermy deer leg lying around somewhere?” 

“I didn’t do it,” Went says, deadpan. 

This seems to send Richie into another bout of confusion as his brow furrows. 

Eddie asks, “Why would there only be one hoof print?”

“Huh?” Richie glances at him, probably surprised by the sudden input from his sulky friend. “Well, obviously, the reindeer was flying and he just put down one hoof to like… shove off.” 

Eddie cracks a reluctant smile as Richie acts out the maneuver. “Oh, obviously.” 

After breakfast, they open the small number of gifts under the tree. Richie bought his dad a vintage sweater that looks like something Richie would wear, and he gives him mom a book, some cerebral-looking novel. Richie’s parents give him a nice dark gray blazer, a small bluetooth speaker, and… a pack of socks. Richie holds them up triumphantly. “Thank you _so_ much. I don’t think I’ve ever bought socks for myself and I don’t plan to. It’s my last vestige of childhood innocence.” 

Then Richie presents a gift bag to Eddie. Eddie’s cheeks warm under the attention as he opens it. Inside is a small assortment of things: a candle, ‘Northwoods’ scent, certainly bought at the airport gift shop, a box of herbal tea, and a Ruth Bader Ginsburg bobblehead. Eddie laughs. 

“For your work desk!” Richie explains. “It’s, like, law stuff!” 

“Yeah,” Eddie agrees. He does think it’s funny; he flicks Ruth’s oversized head. “Law stuff.” 

Last and most nerve-wracking, Richie opens his gift from Eddie. From the tissue paper, he first pulls a reusable, metal boba straw and cleaning brush (“Every time we’ve gone there, you say you’re gonna buy one,” Eddie explains), and then a page-a-day calendar. 

“It has a joke for each day,” Eddie says. 

Richie laughs, beginning to flip through it. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to take this. Is this your way of telling me to get better material?”

Eddie smiles. He was thinking he could keep it at the bar. He says, “Maybe.” 

The rest of the day ahead of them, Eddie refills his coffee mug and sits down in front of a half-finished puzzle on the dining room table. He get absorbed in it quickly, glad to kill some time. Maggie and Went are settled in the living room, respectively reading and watching the muted TV. Maybe they’ll go on a walk later, Maggie suggested, and there’s dinner to prepare but they have time.

Eddie has barely started sorting the pieces by shape when Richie sits down at the table across from him. “I could watch you do this all day,” Richie says. Then: “Look, um… I know I was kind of weird last night.” 

“Weird?” Eddie repeats mildly. He fits another piece in, and remembers his conclusion from last night. He doesn’t want to say too much. 

Richie sighs, glances over his shoulder to the kitchen to ensure their privacy, and leans in closer. “I’m sorry.”

Eddie finally meets his eye for real, for more than a fleeting second, for the first time since all the awkwardness began. “Are you okay?”

Richie seems taken aback. “Yeah? Yes, I mean. Yeah.” He looks down to the puzzle, upside-down from where he’s sitting, and tries to fit a piece in a couple places, unsuccessfully. “I think coming home gets me in a weird place. I know it was like, stupid… but I think I’m fine. I usually don’t fall off the wagon epically, not at first, it’s more like, oh, I can be normal now… and then it builds. Better to not start. I think it helped to have your judgy little eyes on me, kinda puts me off it.”

“Richie,” Eddie chides, not quite up to Richie teasing him right now.

“Sorry, sorry,” he says quickly, then more sincerely: “I’m sorry.”

Eddie hums. “Are you gonna get your chip revoked or whatever?”

Richie scrunches his nose. “I’m not actually in AA, that’s just a little trick we do in stand-up called lying.” 

A surprised laugh escapes Eddie before he can stifle it. Then he levels his gaze back at Richie, taking in his slight discomfort and embarrassment, evident in his rigid posture and the way his mouth twitches. “Well, it was illuminating to see how much a dick you were in high school, Trashmouth.” 

Richie grimaces. 

Eddie asks again, “You’re okay?” 

Richie says, “Hundred percent.” Then he hedges: “Well, eighty. Sixty?” 

Eddie smiles and returns his gaze to the puzzle. “I’ll take it.” 

+

After dinner, it starts snowing in large, slow flurries. So Maggie suggests they take a walk a few blocks to the small downtown. Richie finally borrows a real winter jacket, a hat and gloves. Eddie wraps his scarf around his neck, and he kind of missed this: getting bundled up inside, to the point where you want to step outside, just for the relief. 

The temperature has risen; it must now be hovering right around freezing. The falling snow is wet and melts in their hair and blots out the yellow light from street lamps. 

The downtown is a two-block stretch of storefronts, beside the river, and in between a bridge and railroad tracks. The shop windows are dark and the street and sidewalks are coated in an undisturbed layer of snow. 

It’s pretty fucking idyllic, Eddie thinks. 

Then Richie says, “Wait…” and he starts running off down the middle of the street, limbs flailing dramatically, and shouting in a half-decent Jimmy Stewart impression: “Merry Christmas antique shop! Merry Christmas Mexican restaurant! Merry Christmas other Mexican restaurant!” 

Eddie bursts into laughter as he begins to run after him. When he catches up with Richie in front of a brick-faced building, Richie is breathing hard from his short sprint, glasses wet with melted snow, and eyes bright behind him. Eddie’s chest blooms with undeniable affection. 

Then he glances up behind him and raises his eyebrows. “Is that bar called the Busted Nut?” 

“Yeah.” Richie cups his hands around his mouth and lapses back into the slightly lispy Jimmy Stewart voice: “Merry Christmas you wonderful old Busted Nut!” 

Eddie nearly collapses with laughter. 

Maggie, strolling toward them, says, “Richie,” in a tired tone. 

“I’ve passed out on the floor in the bathroom there,” he says quietly, only to Eddie. “That was like, top five moments I realized I might have a problem.”

They walk a short ways farther, to look out at the river, the Mississippi, dark and churning, ice flows piled up in shards on either shore. 

“It must be nice in the summer, too,” Eddie says, not hiding his wistfulness. 

“Yeah.” Richie turns to him and grins. “You should come back in time for the mayfly die-off, you’d love it, Eds.” 

While they walk back up the hill to the Toziers’ home, cheeks ruddy and toes numb, Richie belting out Auld Lang Syne, Eddie thinks: _I’m going to tell him how I feel. Probably not today, probably not tomorrow, but soon._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hmm, mind if I just *projects onto Richie* *projects onto Richie* *projects onto Richie*


	8. Eddie throws a New Year’s party!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there’s this weird recurring motif in this fic about appetizer spreads and that’s just because i love snacks.

It’s a quarter after seven and Eddie looks down at the snack spread on his kitchen island, brow furrowed. Then he realizes he forgot a spoon for the hummus so he grabs a small one from a drawer. At that moment, the doorbell rings and Eddie sighs in relief as he goes to answer it. 

Stan and Patty stand on his front step. Stan wordlessly offers a bottle of champagne. 

“I told you seven,” Eddie says, holding the door for them as they step inside. 

Stan checks his watch. “It’s seven. No one else is here.” 

Eddie knows for a fact that Stan is too punctual to be the type of person who thinks that 7:15 _is_ 7:00. So, he must be late on purpose, which, honestly… fair. Eddie’s kind of been freaking out about this New Year’s party for the past few days, ever since he came back from Minnesota. 

He hatched the idea with Richie, on the way to the airport, then made a Facebook event and invited everyone he knows and told them to invite everyone they know. Then he asked Stanley to please, please, _please_ be the first person there. 

He put out all the snacks and drinks at five and then realized that was too long for them to sit unrefrigerated and then put them back into the fridge. 

He’s doing _fine_. 

In his mind, this is partially a belated housewarming party and partially a stunt to prove to himself and to everyone else that he has a life in L.A., a network of friends, now that he’s been settling more into the idea of staying here long-term. 

Severing his relationship with his mother has everything feeling more permanent. She didn’t call or text on Christmas, neither did his aunt, so it’s beginning to sink in. This isn’t some temporary rebellion and he isn’t going to go back to New York or to his old life. This is his life now, here, in L.A., for real. And that feels really good, but scary. Every time he considers that, his chest seizes and his stomach flips. 

His entire life, Eddie’s alternated between structure and chaos. He can either do what he’s supposed to do and do it well, or he can spectacularly blow everything up. The pattern existed well before he ran into Bill in New York and moved cross-country on a whim. 

So, the idea of choosing this life for himself and making it work for himself and not having any rules to follow… That’s terrifying. He’s never done that before. In a way, he figures, it’s the crisis most people without overbearing mothers face when they graduate college. Eddie’s a late bloomer with a lot of things, and it turns out existential angst is one of them. 

And Eddie is channeling all of these messy anxieties into crafting a perfect appetizer spread, as you do. 

Stan and Patty stand in the kitchen and assess with him for a moment. Patty adds the bottle of champagne to the ice-filled sink. Then she asks, “How many people are you expecting?” 

It’s an innocent question, but Eddie’s high-strung, so he snaps: “I don’t know! Everyone fucking replied with ‘maybe,’ like, what the fuck am I supposed to get from that, ‘maybe’?”

Patty and Stan both make a face as they stifle a laugh. 

“It could be more of an intimate soiree,” Stan suggests. “Re-brand real quick. Get rid of the ice-sink, that’s frat party bullshit.” 

“It’s not ‘frat party bullshit’ it’s, like, practical. Self-draining.”

“When I go to a party at an adult’s house and I want a drink, the first place I look is usually the fridge, not the sink.” 

“Fuck off, Stan, it’s like two feet away and then everyone can look at the options without standing there with the door open so it’s like, energy efficient—”

Stan’s eyes are wide, really hitting his stride with this argument: “You think making all of that ice was _energy efficient?_”

Patty laughs and waves her hands between them, putting an end to it. “The ice has been made, it’s in the sink, we’re keeping the ice-sink.”

Eddie gestures to her decisively. “Thank you, my favorite Uris.” 

Before they can fully address the proper placement of the trash can in relation to the buffet, the doorbell rings. 

Eddie smooths his button-down shirt—it’s got a louder pattern on it than something he would usually buy, and yes he thought of Richie when he saw it on the rack and yes that’s why he bought it—and goes to answer the door. 

It’s Mike. He offers a few things for the snack spread, grabs a beer from the sink, and comments on how much he likes the ice-sink situation (Eddie says, “You see?” to Stan, who rolls his eyes). Mike and Patty both acknowledge that it’s good to see each other again. Then after a beat of silence, Stan asks, “How was the ritual lamb sacrifice?” 

Mike is already pulling out his phone to show pictures. “Slaughter,” he corrects. 

“Right, right.” 

The three of them huddle around to see the before pictures (the gangly lamb with the wool on his legs and face darker than the rest of his body) and the after pictures (braised lamb chops with potatoes and green beans). No pictures of the gory in-between, thank god, but there are a few pictures of Mike’s smiling family members and the barren, snow-dusted fields of the ranch. 

When Mike pockets his phone again, he asks, “How’s your mom, Eddie?”

Eddie grimaces. “Yeah, it did… not go well. She actually left before Christmas.” 

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Mike says. 

“Don’t be,” Eddie says. “It’s all for the best. I ended up going home with Richie and that was really nice.”

Then Patty nudges Stan and gives him a meaningful look. He sighs and says, “So, I got into law school.”

After a second for it to sink in, Eddie and Mike both burst into excited cheers: “Congratulations! That’s great!” 

Stan kind of shrugs them off, but he smiles. Eddie begins to open one of the bottles of champagne, and ignores Stan’s protests that it’s way too early. He pours four glasses, and raises his. “A toast. Stan is one step closer to stealing my job.” 

Stan snorts. “Yeah, that’s why I’m doing this.” 

“I’m never gonna find another paralegal half as competent,” Mike laments, then throws back the small glass of champagne in one wincing swallow. 

“Not my problem,” Stan says. 

Richie is the next guest to arrive, around eight. Eddie meets him at the door and the first thing he says is, “I like your shirt.” The next thing he says, when he settles around the counter in the kitchen is, “This snack spread is fuckin’ _sexy_.” When Eddie laughs, he doubles down: “No, seriously, my legs are wide open, Eds. I mean, three kinds of olives? _And_ tapenade?” Richie’s eyes roll back slightly as he groans. “You are my ideal man.” 

Eddie tries not to furiously blush as he says, “Mike brought the tapenade.” 

“Oh. Maybe Mike is my ideal man.” Richie grabs a couple more olives and pops them in his mouth. 

Stan looks at Eddie like, _Wow_. Eddie looks back at him like, _Shut up_.

Soon after that, a larger group of guests arrive: Beverly and Ben and people they know from work and a large portion of their improv and acting classes. Soon, Eddie’s kitchen and living room are buzzing with conversation and activity. Eddie gets a lightning round of introductions, but he makes little attempt to remember any names.

Earlier in the week, as part of the party preparation, Richie gave Eddie a shopping list for a home bar starter kit. Now, Richie kicks off the evening by cranking out a bunch of drinks with gin, lavender-honey syrup (that Richie made himself), and lemon juice. As he gets to work, he puts a dollar bill in an empty glass and soon it’s full of tips. When he’s done, he splits his earnings with Eddie, saying, “For the host.”

Eddie shoves it into his pocket. It’s probably only ten dollars, but it’s a nice gesture. 

Then he takes one of the drinks and leans against the counter next to Richie, taking a moment to relax now that the party is in full swing. But it’s not long before nerves start to settle in again because the other reason for throwing this party is to have an excuse to hang out with Richie and maybe get tipsy enough to tell him that he has feelings for him. 

Of course, it’s way too early in the night for _that_, and Eddie is at a loss for what else to say. 

But it doesn’t matter; Richie turns to him, eyes bright, and says, “Alright, operation Ben and Bev. This is my New Year’s resolution. Thoughts? Have you been gathering intel?”

Eddie had honestly forgotten about their scheme to get the two together, and this is not the conversation he was hoping to have. “No?” 

Richie taps his chin. “I’m thinking maybe we isolate them and interrogate them individually, and then report back. You should take Bev, she won’t talk to me.” 

Bev still kind of intimidates Eddie, if he’s being honest, so he’s not going to ‘take her.’ But he agrees anyway, and Richie winks at him and then disappears, presumably to go ‘gather intel.’ 

Eddie finishes his drink in a few gulps and grabs another one before he wanders into the living room to try to find Stan and Patty, his designated security blankets for the evening. When he turns the corner he nearly runs into someone walking in the opposite direction. 

“Oh, sorry— Eddie? Hi.” 

It’s takes half a second for Eddie to recognize him. “Oh, Nick? Hi.” 

“We haven’t really met,” he says, offering his hand. 

“Yeah, uh, nice to meet you. Officially.” Eddie pauses for a second, rocking on his feet and glancing down at the drink in his hand.

Nick’s gaze follows and he points at it. “Is that the drink that Richie made? He said I should grab one before they’re all gone.” 

“Yeah, yeah, there’s a few more on the table.” Eddie gestures over his shoulder. “It’s really good.” 

“Cool, thanks.” Nick gives Eddie a parting smile and maneuvers around him and into the kitchen. Eddie keeps going into the living room, feeling like his night has just become a lot worse.

But he tries not to fixate on it too much. Richie and Nick didn’t arrive together, at least, and a lot of their other acting friends are here. It doesn’t necessarily mean anything. 

For the next hour, Eddie stands outside on his small patio with Stan, Patty and Mike. He’s sulking a little, distracted by the scene happening inside his house, viewed through the glass door. Richie talks and laughs with Bev and Ben and Nick and their other friends.

Patty and Mike spend most of that time comparing notes on National Park vacations and skiing trips, showing each other photos and trip itineraries on their phones. Stan spends most of that time noticing that Eddie is sulking and shooting him sympathetic—if maybe a little smug—looks. 

Shortly before 10, Bev and Nick slide open the door to the patio and poke their heads out. Nick says, “We’re doing an improv show in a few minutes if you want to watch.” Bev adds, “Start thinking of suggestions!”

Mike grins and starts heading indoors. “Sounds fun!”

Eddie exchanges an unimpressed look with Stan, and Stan says, “Well, this is gonna be embarrassing.” 

Eddie gets another drink before the show starts, thinking he’s going to need it. And it is kind of embarrassing to watch. They’re all loud and drunk, and they drag four chairs out from Eddie’s kitchen to use as props. Nick’s introduction that ‘everything you’re about to see is completely improvised’ is probably unnecessary; Eddie doubts it’s going to blow anyone’s mind. Then Mike shouts out the first suggestion, which is ‘microwave.’ 

The first few bits drag on too long and in each case, Richie is finally the one to put an end to the scene or otherwise keep things moving. Maybe there are a few good laughs but Eddie is not feeling charitable at the moment. 

In the middle of some convoluted scene centered on animals in a zoo, Eddie hears the front door open and is glad for the distraction. He sneaks off to see that Bill and Audra have arrived. 

“Hey!” Eddie gives them each a hug and accepts a bottle of wine from Bill. 

Bill says, “Unfortunately we can only stay for, like, half an hour. We’ve got two more of these to show our faces at. It’s a full time job.” His expression is his familiar brand of worn-out but content. Bill might make a few mild complaints, but Eddie knows he likes the life he and Audra have: a huge circle of friends, a lot of commitments. 

Then Audra furrows her eyebrows at the sound of a monkey hoo-hoo-ha-ing from the living room. “What’s going on here?”

“Oh.” Eddie rolls his eyes. “Richie and his improv friends are performing.” 

To his surprise, Audra’s eyes light up and she says, “Oh, fun! Do you think I can hop in?” 

Eddie blinks a few times. “Yeah, probably.” 

Audra dashes into the living room and Eddie leads Bill in the opposite direction, into the kitchen. “Want a drink?” 

Eddie pours them each a glass of wine and catches up with Bill for a few minutes. He has a feeling they won’t be talking about much beside the wedding for a while. The date has been set, apparently, for June 13th.

“Is that bad luck?”

“Yeah, that’s probably why the venue wasn’t b-b- wasn’t booked yet,” Bill says. “Every other Saturday was booked through August.”

“It’s gonna be a big year for you,” Eddie says and Bill agrees, smiling. 

When they return to the living room, Bev and Richie are playing a couple on a stale first date—“This just isn’t working,” Bev says—but then Audra steals the show when she comes in as a waitress and says, “Do you need a few more minutes with the menu, or are you ready to order?”

They wrap up after that scene—Audra takes a little bow as everyone claps, and then she chats with Bev and Richie for a short while, before turning to Bill and nodding her head toward the door. 

“Onto the next event,” Bill announces as he hands Eddie his still half-full wine glass. 

“You guys are the most fun, love you all,” Audra says, blowing a kiss, and then they’re out the door. 

Eddie finishes the rest of Bill’s glass of wine and leaves the empty on the side-table by his sofa. Then he approaches the apparently-inseparable trio of Richie, Nick and Bev; Richie steps aside to make room for Eddie in the circle. Of course, they’re talking about their class. Bev complains for a while about some guy in their class who tends to dominate scenes and they jokingly scheme about telling him the wrong time for their next show. 

Eddie listens and stews for a while, with some kind of petty resentment building up. This night is not going how he hoped, and he supposes he’s the only one to blame for that. Did he really expect Richie to be available to him all night? Does he need that kind of suffocating attention in order to feel cared for? Oh, _god_, is that because of his _mother?_

Having had enough of his own thoughts, he interrupts Bev to say, “Do you pay for these classes?” 

Richie gives him a look like he knows the question isn’t innocent. Then he shrugs and says, “Yeah.”

Eddie doesn’t stop while he’s ahead, instead acting on some uncomfortable impulse to want others to feel bad just because he does. “You think you’re gonna get discovered or something? You and everyone else in L.A.?” There’s a beat of awkward silence and Eddie takes another gulp of his drink. 

“It’s not really about that,” Bev says simply. “It’s fun.” 

“It’s a good way to meet people,” Nick adds. “If I do get discovered, that’s just icing on the cake.”

Richie picks at a piece of lint on his sleeve and does not contribute anything.

Before Eddie can dig this hole deeper, he feels a hand above his elbow and turns to see Stan looking at him, eyebrows raised. “It’s almost midnight,” he says. “We gonna do a countdown or something?”

“Uh, sure.” Eddie turns away to find the remote and turns on his TV. It’s a few minutes to midnight still. He goes back in the kitchen to open a bottle of champagne. As he’s working the cork out over his sink, flinching in anticipation, Stan appears next to him.

“You doing alright?”

The cork pops and they both jump; Stan laughs uneasily. “Yeah, I’m fine,” Eddie says shortly. “Help me carry some glasses?”

Stan follows him back out, and Eddie sets up the champagne and glasses on the coffee table.

“I have noisemakers and shit, too,” he says, pointing at his party store haul.

Bev reaches for one of the hats and places it on Richie’s head, snapping the thin elastic under his chin.

“Fucking _ow_,” he says, batting her hands away. 

Eddie half-heartedly joins in the countdown—_ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one_—and when the confetti sprays on TV, his houseguests all shout, “Happy New Year!” and Mike seems to take it upon himself to use all the noisemakers at once. And Eddie sees, out of the corner of his eye, Nick pull Richie’s face down for a kiss. It’s quick and relatively tame—actually the kiss that Bev gives Richie right after seems longer and deeper—but of course it still hits like a gut punch.

Because, yeah, he knew Richie hasn’t just been waiting around for him. He knew Richie has been dating other people. But he knew it mostly in the abstract. This makes it painfully real. 

And he was going to tell Richie he has _feelings for him_. Like an idiot. 

Eddie starts collecting empty glasses and carries them to the kitchen, ready for an escape. He finds Ben there, rummaging through what’s left in the ice-sink. Ben seems to have spent most of the party talking with Mike, apart from a short cameo during the improv performance earlier. Eddie reaches past him to grab a beer at random and Ben acknowledges him with a quick smile. 

Then Eddie, drunk and bold, says, “I feel like we never hang out. So, what’s the deal with you and Bev?” 

His cheeks immediately go pink as he stammers, “What—? What… deal?” 

“Yeah, dude, here, have a drink with me, tell me everything.” 

They take their beers and sit on the stairs, out of the way of the rest of the party. Ben explains that he and Bev have been close friends for a few years, beginning while she was dating Bill. But, as he sheepishly admits, he’s loved her the entire time. “I know that’s kind of pathetic,” he says. 

“It’s not,” Eddie insists. “That’s, like, beautiful, are you kidding?” 

Ben smiles and looks down at his hands, chuffed, if not entirely convinced. “Anyway,” he continues, “A couple months ago, I told her how I feel and she said she needed some space to think about it. So, I gave her space, but she never really… followed up. And she’s been treating me sort of distantly, so… I can take a hint.”

“Damn.” Eddie sighs, sympathetic. “So you haven’t spoken about it since?” 

Ben frowns. “No.” 

“Shit. That sucks, man.” Eddie raises his beer to clink Ben’s. 

“Thanks,” Ben says. “So… You and Richie?”

Eddie almost says, on instinct, _What do you mean, ‘me and Richie’?_ but he stops himself. Instead, he shrugs and says, “I don’t know what to think. I mean, he brought me home for Christmas. I met his _parents_. He didn’t bring _Nick_ home.” (Eddie didn’t have anywhere to go, but ignoring that.) “Who the fuck is Nick, anyway?” 

Ben shrugs; his motions are sloppy and off-balance. “I don’t even know. He’s in our class?” 

“Yeah,” Eddie says, like this answers everything. “Who the fuck is Nick? He invites him to my party? I don’t even know him. That’s kind of rude, don’t you think?” 

(Eddie told everyone to invite guests, but ignoring that.) 

“Yeah,” Ben agrees, not pointing out the flawed logic. “Yeah, it is rude.” 

Eddie slams a few more drinks and commiserates with Ben until he’s swaying on his feet and he can’t focus his eyes. It’s around 1am when he feels his stomach churn with nausea and he knows he’s going to be sick. Calmly resigned to it, in the way of drunk people, he gets himself to the bathroom and closes the door.

A few minutes later, there’s a tap on the door and someone—Stanley—calls his name.

“Yeah?” Eddie calls back, lifting his head from the toilet. 

Stan opens the door and laughs. Then Eddie retches again and Stan says, “Oh, gross,” and closes the door behind him. “You alright?”

“Yeah, I’m great.”

“I’m gonna… get you some water,” Stan says, clapping his hands together. “Do you want me to tell everyone to leave?” 

“No, I’m fine,” Eddie says before he throws up again. 

Stan returns soon with the water, but Eddie doesn’t think he can keep it down yet, so he just leaves it on the floor next to him. Stan sits on the bathroom counter, humming quietly and kicking his bare feet in the air. 

Eddie can hear things quieting down outside the bathroom, the front door opening and closing as guests begin to leave, and maybe Mike saying, “Where’d Eddie go?” Eddie doesn’t think he’s going to be sick anymore, but he still feels awful, so he stays kneeling in front of the toilet with his head resting on his arms. 

Then there’s a tap on the door. Eddie hears Richie’s distinctive bark of laughter and twists to look up at him. 

“Great party, Eds,” Richie says. “But I don’t have to tell you that, you partied harder than the rest of us combined.” 

“Are you leaving with Nick?” Eddie mumbles into his arm. 

Stan pushes his head down—with his _foot_—and says, “He said goodnight, Richie. Drive safe.” 

The door closes again and Eddie repositions himself to lay flat on the floor, hands folded over his stomach. The room spins. A minute later, he hears Stan leave the bathroom and he hears Patty’s voice and creaking on the stairs above him. 

Then Stan returns and tosses a pillow and blanket on top of him. 

Eddie opens his eyes to squint up at him. “Stanley… Are we alone now?” 

“Yeah. Well, Pat is asleep in your bed. I figured you might be spending the night on the floor. Hence, blankets.”

“I haven’t thrown up from drinking since college.” 

Stan seems less than sober himself. He sits down beside Eddie and pats his hair, smooths it down then ruffles it again. 

Eddie hums, getting some cat-like enjoyment out of his having his hair stroked. Then he whispers, “I really like him, Stan. I wanted to tell him tonight.” 

“You’re such a romantic. It’s disgusting. Or maybe it’s the puking that’s disgusting.” Stan laughs too hard at his own joke. 

Eddie wiggles around on the floor until he gets the blanket spread over him and the pillow under his head. Stan helps a little. Then Eddie sighs and asks, “How’d you and Patty get together?”

“You really want to know? It’s boring compared to your life.” 

“Look at me, Stanny.” Eddie weakly gestures at himself. “It’s New Year’s Eve and I’m lying on the floor in my own bathroom. It’s the dawn of a new decade, and this is how I’ve chosen to start it. So, please. Tell me about your stable, heterosexual, white-picket-fence life.” 

“You’re eloquent when you’re drunk.” 

“I’m eloquent when I’m depressed.” 

Stan barks a laugh and that makes Eddie smile. “Okay, well. In college, I was a sailing instructor.”

“What?” Eddie lifts his head to gape at this new information. 

“Yeah. Lake Michigan, total dock rat. I raced, too. There’s this…” He chuckles. “There’s this joke in sailboat racing I think you’ll appreciate. So, there’s abbreviations. D.N.F. Did not finish. D.S.Q. Disqualified, right? So, the guys, if you were having a really bad race, they’d start shouting D.F.L.! D.F.L.! Dead fucking last.”

“You’re so fucking cool,” Eddie whispers, almost reverently.

“Yeah, I know.” Stan seems to hit a stride now in his storytelling. “One of the things about racing, you have to use yourself as ballast, basically. Throw yourself over the edge, hooked into the bracket, getting battered by waves. It was fun. Like, exhilarating. But there’s a few horror stories, too. Like, you’re tied to the ship, right? So, if you capsize and you can’t… unhook yourself fast enough…” 

Eddie shivers involuntarily, wraps the blankets tighter around himself.

“Anyway. Patty, she’s a few years older than me. While she was in medical school, she signed up for sailing lessons. She was good. Well, at everything but the celestial navigation. But she was down for anything, too.” Stan pauses. “Whatever you’re thinking, cut it out. I meant, she joined racing crews. She threw herself over the edge without hesitation, and she, you know, peed in a bucket, the whole deal.” 

Eddie laughs. “This is so the opposite of boring, are you kidding? This is a movie.”

“So, we became friends. We started dating, and—”

Eddie lifts a hand, eyes still closed. “Hold up. What happened in between?”

Stan laughs. “I asked her on a date and she said yes. Do I need to break that down further for you?”

“Oh, shut up. You're both Jewish anyway, isn't that kinda... expected? For you to get together?"

Stan doesn't miss a beat: "You're both gay, isn't _that_ kind of expected?" 

Eddie smiles. _Touche._ "You’re the worst. I need to talk to Ben again, he’s the only straight man who gets it.”

“Eddie. I think you should… talk to him.”

“Ben?”

“No, idiot. Richie.”

“I’m afraid of ruining everything,” Eddie mumbles. “We’re really good friends now. Richie knows a lot of my other friends, like our social groups are… integrated. I mean, without Richie there would have been like… four people at this party. Besides, I had my chance and I threw it away. And now I like him so much and that’s gonna freak him out.”

Stan’s hand strokes his hair again—then lightly slaps his cheek. Eddie makes a small surprised sound. “You really are an idiot.”

Eddie squints up at him. “Wanna go to sleep now.”

“Here?”

“Yeah. Will you turn out the light?”

“Yeah. You’re gonna feel so shitty tomorrow.”

“I feel shitty right now.”

Stan chuckles. “Goodnight.” 

Eddie hears his feet on the stairs, trekking up to the bedroom. He hears maybe a short, murmured conversation between Patty and Stan. Then he falls asleep. 

And he does feel shitty the next day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i stole the only good improv joke from [this video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P4HTxmqNTCY).
> 
> thanks for reading!


	9. Eddie helps plan a wedding!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (don’t look too closely at the timeline for this fic, it doesn’t make any sense unless like 4 months pass during this chapter)

Eddie has always had issues with obsessiveness. 

Of course there was Bill, the friendship that defined his childhood and early teenage years. In college, he had an intense and codependent relationship with a roommate that ended in spectacular heartbreak. After that he shifted his energy as well as he could into law school and his fledgling career. And there it stayed for about a decade, with a few detours over the years. 

So, the way that Eddie feels right now isn’t foreign to him. He knows how to manage it. He can take his mind off Richie for a while and throw himself into something else. His best man duties for Bill and Audra’s wedding are conveniently timed and will take up a lot of mental space for the next few months. So, he focuses on that.

He knows he’s just trading one obsession for another, but he’s always done this. It’s the only thing that works. And he knows, probably, that his tendency to obsess must be a sign of a deeper problem, something empty and hungry inside him, but he has no idea what to do with that. 

The more immediate problem is that his new hobby is still Richie-adjacent. He can’t exactly exclude Richie from helping out with a wedding he’s also in, and apparently Richie can’t read Eddie’s mind, so he keeps inviting him to hang out. 

That’s how Eddie ends up sitting across from Richie at NoHo Boba on a Saturday afternoon only a couple weeks after resolving to put some distance between them. 

When they walked in an hour ago, Richie ordered and then said, “Fuck, I forgot the boba straw you gave me.” Eddie said, “You always forget it.” Then they sat down and Eddie pulled out a three-ring binder where he’s been organizing everything for the Bill-and-Audra wedding and Richie hasn’t stopped roasting him for it since. 

“This is the cutest red-flag behavior I’ve ever seen,” Richie says as he reaches across the table to flip through the pages.

“Red-flag— what does that even mean?” 

Richie lands on a page of formal wear options and prices for the groomsmen. “Is this your vision board?”

Eddie ignores his joking to ask, “Actually, which one do you like most? Bill is wearing…” He flips a few pages back and points to a black tux. “This. So keep that in mind.”

Richie squints at the options again. He grabs the binder and turns it around and holds it up to his face, even removes his glasses to get a closer look.

Eddie sighs and folds his arms as he watches him, knowing this is all a bit and not having much patience for it.

Then Richie says, “These are all the same,” and plops the binder back down on the table. 

“I know you’re fucking with me to make me upset but these are literally not the same. Like, there are obvious differences.” 

Richie shakes his head. “Nope. All men’s formal wear is the same.” 

Eddie snatches his binder back, not enjoying that Richie has the power to piss him off even when Eddie _knows_ he’s joking. “Who allowed you to be a gay man? Was there a paperwork mix-up?” 

“Paperwork?” Richie repeats. “What, do you need a permit to suck dick?” 

“You _should._” 

Richie chuckles and Eddie looks away and back to his laptop because now he has some distracting mental images in his head. 

“Want another matcha?” Richie asks, grabbing both their empties.

“Please.” 

Eddie spends some more time looking at hotels in San Francisco for the bachelor party, while Richie waits for their drinks and chats with Hank, the questionably-criminal owner of the place. Richie starts asking him if he knows much about fashion; “You look like you do,” he says. 

“Richie,” Eddie warns, but it’s too late; Hank is already on his way over to their table, two drinks in hand. 

So, Eddie begrudgingly flips open his binder to show him the options. 

“Ooh.” Hank leans in closer. “I like these bow-ties. You could each have a different color.” 

“That’s what I was thinking,” Eddie admits. “To coordinate with the bridesmaids.”

Hank’s eyes are wide with excitement. “Yes! Such a great idea. Let me know if I can help with anything else, okay?” He sets their drinks down on the table and returns behind the counter. 

Richie sits down and stabs his straw through the lid of his tea. “Bow-ties, huh?” 

“It’s one of the options,” Eddie says flatly. “So, you can tell bow-ties apart from regular ties?” 

Richie narrows his eyes at Eddie as he takes a long sip of his tea. A couple black pearls travel up the straw and he chews them before he says, “No.” 

Eddie rolls his eyes and returns his attention to his hotel research. But Richie interrupts a minute later to ask, “What are we doing for the bachelor party, anyway?” 

“Help me plan,” Eddie says, turning his laptop around. “Do you think a hotel is fine, or should I look for an AirBnB?” 

Richie squints at the screen. “San Francisco?” 

“Yeah. I’m thinking arrive Friday night, we’ll have all day Saturday, leave on Sunday.” Eddie takes his laptop back, figuring Richie isn’t going to be much help. “I’m finding some good places for dinner both nights. On Saturday, I think we’re gonna have most of the day to just do tourist stuff, but we are going on a brewery tour at some point. Bill loved that idea.” 

Eddie has started working on the schedule, figuring out how many breweries they can feasibly go to in one afternoon and evening, and which ones are the best, and mapping them out. He figures five breweries is the upper limit. Most of the ‘how to plan a bachelor party’ articles he’s read online have warned against overbooking, so he wants to leave a lot of the day on Saturday open to whatever people want to do. 

“No strip clubs?” Richie asks. 

“No strip clubs,” Eddie confirms. “That’s not really Bill’s style… Or… mine.”

“Can we please drag them to at least one gay bar?” Richie makes praying hands and bats his eyelashes. “We’re gonna be in San Fran, baby.” 

“It’s not off the table,” Eddie says with a smile. “We’ll see how the night goes.” 

“If I have to watch Bill sample IPAs all day, it’s really the least he can do.” 

+

A weekend in February brings a get-together for the wedding party. They have a private room in an upscale restaurant. The centerpiece of the room is a long white-clothed table set up with small bouquets and candles. 

Eddie meets two of the other groomsmen, Chris and Alex, friends of Bill’s. They both work in ‘the industry,’ apparently, and as always Eddie has to hold himself back from sarcastically asking, _Oh, what industry is that?_ They seem like nice enough guys, though, both other television writers who Bill has worked with for years. Eddie gets both of their phone numbers for further bachelor party planning. Now he only has one groomsmen left to meet, one of Bill’s cousins, who lives out east. 

Richie is there, too, and Eddie might stare a little when he walks in because he’s dressed in a sharp suit and a skinny black tie. Granted, Eddie texted him beforehand that this was a dress-code event, but his expectations weren’t this high. 

Eddie makes more of a show of appraising him while he approaches, and Richie begins model-walking, swaying his hips. 

Eddie greets him, “Hey, what happened to you, Mr. ‘I don’t know anything about men’s formal wear’?”

Richie grins. “I got Queer Eye’d. Wait until you see the episode. It’s a real tear-jerker.”

Eddie turns away from him, laughing. 

Audra’s sister Christine, the maid of honor, and three of Audra’s friends are also in attendance. They’re all going to look really good in the pictures, Eddie thinks as he’s quickly introduced to each of them. (Eddie suspects bridesmaid dress selection will be uncontentious since they all have uncannily similar body types.) 

Once everyone has arrived, Bill makes a short welcome speech: “Hey, everybody. Thanks for coming out. This is a good chance for you all to meet each other, under the guise of trying some catering options. Feel free to give your opinions but just know that Audra is only looking for you to agree with her, and she will ignore your input if you don’t.” 

Audra laughs but doesn’t argue with the sentiment.

Eddie sits down between Christine and Richie and across from Bill and Audra. He and Christine compare notes for a few minutes on their respective duties, while the waitstaff begin to pour wine. Christine is a mirror to the kind of frantic energy Eddie has been feeling lately. They’ve been in communication about a few things over the past month, but it’s a relief to see the slight panic in her eyes as she answers his casual inquires about the bachelorette party.

“Carmel,” she says, glancing to Audra who beams at her. “For the weekend. We’ll have a nice spa day, probably lots of wine.” 

“Oh, we should do _that_,” Richie interjects, leaning over Eddie to enthusiastically gesture at her. “Is it too late to do that instead of a craft beer bro-tour?” 

“Ha, ha,” Bill says, good-naturedly. “When you get married, you can choose the bachelor party activity, okay, Rich?” 

That’s all the prompting Richie needs to start opining about all the hyper-gendered traditions involved in weddings and how they don’t hold up well for a gay wedding: the separation of bridesmaids and groomsmen, the walking down the aisle, the mother-son and father-daughter dances.

“I mean, would I have to dance with my _dad?_” Richie says, getting a good laugh from the table. “Like, that shit is so uncomfortable. I hope you’re not doing that, Bill.”

Bill grimaces. “Uh, no, we aren’t doing the… mother-father dance thing. Right?” 

Audra shrugs. “Nah.” 

Eddie senses a bit of discomfort and he breaks the tension by saying, “Richie, I’d love to see your dad walking you down the aisle,” to get him joking again. 

“Wentworth Tozier lifts my veil and kisses my cheek,” Richie says, holding a hand over his heart.

Bill looks relieved to have the issue of his own parents fade into the background as Richie hams it up. 

Bill has confided in Eddie, both when they were children and more recently, that he is not close with his parents. They got a divorce when Bill was in high school—a lot of couples don’t survive the loss of a child—so the wedding will be the first time they’ve all been together in a long time. So, Bill has got that on his plate to worry about, in addition to the usual wedding stress, not to mention that Audra’s parents are still—to state it generously—warming up to him.

Eddie is prepared for a Bill breakdown sometime during the next few months. Until then, he’s determined to do everything in his power to make things go smoothly. 

The waiter reaches their side of the table and starts pouring three options for white wine into three small glasses at each place setting.

Eddie imagines Richie will either stop the waiter from pouring his, or more likely pawn his samples off on someone else, but he does neither. Once he’s been served, he lifts up one of the glasses, swirls it, and says, “Good thing you invited me. I can’t trust you uncultured bitches with this decision.”

Eddie says, under his breath, “Richie, come on. I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

And Richie says, at full volume, “Get off my dick, Kaspbrak.”

Bill and his two friends, Chris and Alex, laugh heartily; Eddie freezes, eyes wide. 

He doesn’t want to make a scene and he has a bad feeling that Richie is banking on that, and looking around a table of mostly strangers, he doesn’t think he’s going to find any allies here. 

So, Eddie sits in silence for a few minutes, listening to the rest of them assess the wines. He feels like he’s been doused in cold water, his mood having turned on a dime from relaxed and happy to apprehensive and uneasy.

His confusion overshadows all of it. _What the fuck…_

“They all taste the same,” Richie says, after he’s quickly blown through each sample glass. “Did you know, like, fifty-percent of sommeliers, when blindfolded, can’t even tell the difference between a red and a white?”

Bill scoffs and says, “There is no way that’s true. Where are you getting these numbers?”

“Let’s do a blind taste test right now.” 

Bill points to Eddie across the table and stutters on the beginning of his name, leaving Eddie staring back for a few seconds of dread. “Eh-eh— Um, Eddie already did that to me with beer. And I could tell them apart.” 

Richie turns to look at him. “When did this happen?”

Eddie answers, his tone begrudging as he drags the words out of himself. “I dunno, some bar, right after I moved here.” 

Richie nods and then starts loosening his own tie. “Here, we’ll use this as a blindfold.”

Audra laughingly puts a stop to it: “We are not deciding our wedding menu based on a blind taste test.” 

Richie protests, “You don’t have to _decide_ it that way.”

They’re served a few appetizers to try next, along with three red wines, and when Bill makes a trip to the bathroom, Eddie slips away, too. He waits a minute or two in the hallway until Bill exits, and corners him. 

“Bill,” Eddie says, taking his elbow in hand until Bill focuses enough to meet his eye. 

Bill is clearly distracted as he says, “What? What’s up?”

“Richie really shouldn’t be drinking. He’s an alcoholic.” 

Bill’s face flickers through a few more shades of confusion before he says, “Richie’s not an alcoholic… He’s a bartender.” Then he slaps Eddie’s shoulder and returns to the table. 

After a moment of lingering in the hallway, waiters bustling past him, Eddie returns too, sitting down beside Richie again. 

When he slides into his seat, Richie greets him in a loud and cheerful voice. “Eddie, Eddie Spaghetti. Anyone ever call you that? Eddie, Eddie bo-Beddie. Fee fie mo-Meddie. You know, I was banned from that game in elementary school ‘cause my name made a bad word.” He stage-whispers: “Bichie!” 

There are a few laughs around the table and Eddie smiles tightly. He’s kind of amazed that Richie is doing this _again_. Does he think he’s getting away with something?

Eddie tries again to talk only to Richie, in a low voice: “Richie. Why are you drinking? I thought you said—”

“Everything is fine in moderation,” Richie says, loudly, still not playing along with the one-on-one. 

Bill challenges, “Everything?” and Richie agrees, quirking a conspiratorial eyebrow, “_Everything_.” 

Then Richie says, quietly and only to Eddie, “Don’t worry, I’m not gonna end the night with my head in a toilet.” 

Eddie feels a sudden rush of heat, prickly shame on his cheeks. 

Richie goes right back to joking and laughing with the rest of the table, but the comment leaves Eddie sequestered in his own head for a while. 

What exactly is Richie _implying?_

Sure, New Year’s Eve wasn’t Eddie’s finest moment, but it’s not like he makes a habit of it. He’s not an alcoholic. And Richie can’t use that to excuse his own behavior. Two wrongs don’t make a right, and all. 

But whatever rationalizations Eddie comes up with, he still feels uncomfortably exposed, picked apart, dissected. That wasn’t something he wanted Richie to see. And it’s not something he wants to pry too far into himself, either. 

Soon enough, they move onto champagne and dessert. There are three fancy cakes to try and shortly after each guest is served a slice, Richie announces that they’re all awful. 

“This frosting is like…” Richie smacks his tongue against the roof of his mouth a few times. “It’s like, oily. It’s gross. Is this what fancy cake is?” 

“What was that about your sophisticated palate, again, Richie?” Bill asks. Richie uses his extended middle finger to push his glasses up the bridge of his nose, pointedly at Bill. 

This gets another burst of laughter, and each round of it grates Eddie’s nerves more than the last. He starts picking at his cake, tasting the passionfruit filling from one of them. 

As Richie reaches for Eddie’s untouched champagne glass, he begins to talk, evidently to Eddie, since no one else is really paying attention to him at this point. 

“So, Nick got cast in a movie somehow—he didn’t even audition, someone just fucking cold-called him—so he’s going to Toronto for a few months to film. And when he told me, he was like, ‘Richie, I don’t want to do long distance. We need to break up.’ And I was like, were we even together? Because I was not under the impression that it was serious—or exclusive.” Richie laughs to himself. “Not that I’ve been having much luck anyway. Did you know I got banned from Tinder _and_ Grindr? I have no fucking clue why. And, let me tell you, asking to appeal that decision was one of the most humiliating moments of my life. Like, does this mean some actual person’s gonna have to read through all my DM’s to see whether or not I was harassing someone? Like, what the fuck? The universe is conspiring to prevent me from getting laid.” 

Richie pauses long enough to swallow the rest of the champagne. Then his eyes light up with a fresh fervor.

“And, you know what’s worse, NoHo Boba got shut down!” Richie throws his hands up. “Yeah! Turns out it was a front for the Chechen mob? 2020 sucks so far. This _decade_ sucks so far.”

Eddie blinks a few times, trying to process the weird dump of information, along with everything else. If he weren’t pissed at Richie at the moment, he might be privately glad to hear the news about Nick, or he might say, ‘I told you so’ about NoHo Boba. 

But as it is, he doesn’t say anything. He just watches as Richie snags a few more of Eddie’s half-full wine glasses. 

When everyone leaves, Eddie sits in his car in the parking lot and scrolls through his phone to his never-used contact for Bev Marsh. He takes a minute to compose the text and ends up with: _Hey Bev, this is Eddie. I was at a wedding thing with Richie and he was drinking. I wanted to talk to you to get a gauge on how concerned I should be. Thanks._

He sends the text and starts his car, but before he can start to leave the parking lot his phone is ringing. _Incoming call from: Bev Marsh._

“Hello?”

Bev gets right to the point, cutting off his greeting: “Are you with Richie right now?” 

“No, uh, he went home.” 

Bev sighs. “Okay, I’m gonna go kick his ass, can you pick me up?” 

“Um.” Eddie runs a few scenarios through his head of how this could go down. None of them are good. 

Bev elaborates, her tone expectant: “I don’t have a car, so.” 

“Um. Okay.” 

Bev says she’ll text him her address and she hangs up. 

“Okay…” Eddie says again to himself.

He picks up Bev from a duplex in Studio City and as they drive to Richie’s apartment, she fills in Eddie on the situation.

“Richie’s been sober for a few months, and a few months before that,” she says. “I think he gets an idea that it’s gonna be different this time, but then it’s not long before he’s drinking every day again, and drinking at work…” 

“But he… seems like he’s been doing okay?” Eddie says. “Maybe it… could be different?”

She shakes her head. “Look, it took him long enough to accept he had a problem in the first place. I’m not letting him… un-accept it. He’s gotten better at hiding it from me because he knows I won’t take his bullshit.”

She flashes Eddie a toothy smile that does nothing to put him at ease. 

When Eddie parks outside of Richie’s apartment, Bev hops out of the car. Eddie hesitates long enough for her to notice, so she pokes her head back inside. “Are you coming?”

Eddie’s hands are still on the steering wheel. He remembers his decision to distance himself from Richie, and this does not follow from that conclusion. But he doesn’t want to be a coward. Even if this isn’t the best move from him-and-Richie, it seems like the best thing to do for Richie. And ultimately that is more important to him. So he sighs and gets out of the car. 

Bev knocks on the door to Richie’s apartment, Eddie standing nervously a few paces behind her. When Richie answers the door, looking confused—“Who drops by without texting first? Did somebody die?”—Bev walks right past him and into his apartment.

“Well, okay, make yourself at home,” Richie says, and only then notices Eddie. “Oh. What are you—?” His face turns from confusion to understanding, to unmistakable annoyance. “Oh, I see. You ratted me out. Real nice, Eds.” 

Eddie sheepishly takes a few steps inside and begins to say, “I’m sorry, I was just worried and—”

“You can quit it with the raid, DEA,” Richie calls into the kitchen. “I don’t have any alcohol in the house.” 

Bev comes back again, hands on her hips. “What’s going on, Richie?”

“I’m not, like, a real alcoholic,” Richie says, frustration evident in his tone. “I, uh, _appreciate_ your concern, and don’t worry, I’m really ashamed or whatever—”

“Don’t be ashamed, just stop doing this—”

“I’m sorry I wanted to have a normal fun time for once. Like, Eddie can get smashed on New Year’s and we don’t have to throw an intervention for him, but I have a couple glasses of wine and it’s a huge crisis. It’s fucking bullshit.”

Both sets of eyes flicker to Eddie. In the following silence, cheeks burning again, he quietly says, “You said it yourself. It’s better not to start.”

Richie opens his front door. “Can you guys get out of my apartment? I’m very tired.” 

Bev makes no move to do so. “You know we’re right.”

“Somehow that is not a convincing argument.” Richie opens the door wider and gestures out of it.

Now she does take a few steps toward the door, and as she passes Richie she says, “We’re here for you, Richie, okay? You’re not alone, whether you like it or not.” 

Eddie follows Bev out, giving another fleeting glance to Richie—he looks irritated but keeps his composure, jaw clenched—before the door closes. 

Once they’re on the sidewalk outside of Richie’s apartment building, Eddie says, “I don’t think that went very well?” 

Bev glances back as she keeps walking, shooting him a sympathetic look. “Richie can be really frustrating sometimes. Just so you know what you’re getting yourself into.” 

Something about the way she says that rubs him the wrong way. “I’m not ‘getting myself into’ anything, Bev,” he says. “I mean, we’ve been close friends for a few months now. I’m already ‘in’ it.” 

She stops walking suddenly and spins around to face him. “Are you fucking him?” 

Eddie recoils. “No! Jesus. Is this how you talk to people?” 

She crosses her arms. “Well, why not?” 

“_Why not?_” Eddie repeats incredulously. “I don’t know, why aren’t you with Ben?” 

It seems to throw her off balance, which was his intention. “Ben? This isn’t about me.” 

“Well, if we’re asking why people aren’t sleeping with other people—”

“I’ve had some bad relationships in the past,” she interrupts him. Her tone is icy. “Before I moved here, I was married.” 

“Oh,” Eddie breathes, a dumb, surprised sound. 

Bev nods like she’s explaining something to a child. “Yeah. He was a real piece of shit. So, excuse me if I’m a little cautious.”

“I get that.” 

Bev looks unconvinced. 

“I mean, I can… sympathize,” Eddie clarifies, awkwardly. “But you should let yourself be happy.” 

“I _am_ happy,” she says with some fire, eyes flashing. “I’m independent for once in my life, I have a career and I can support myself and I have good friends. Why do you think I need a relationship to be happy?” 

“I didn’t say that you _need_ one, but if you… _want_ one… you shouldn’t deny yourself that because you’re scared or because you’re trying to prove something.” Eddie realizes it sounds a lot like he’s giving himself advice, so he hurriedly tacks on, “Ben is a good guy and he really loves you.” 

Bev laughs, strained, a hand on her forehead. “Do you even know Ben? Like, I’m sorry, but have you talked to him… twice?” 

“_You_ know Ben,” he says. “You know it’s true.”

She watches him with suspicion for a few seconds. “Sorry, where did you come from?” 

“New York,” Eddie answers weakly. 

“Right. You’re everywhere lately, and now you’re trying to… fairy-godmother me?”

“That’s mildly offensive.” 

She rolls her eyes. “Literally all my friends are gay.” 

“That’s not—” 

“And you’re not fucking Richie?” 

“_No_, why are you on this…?” 

“But you want to?” 

He opens and closes his mouth a few times. This is Richie’s best friend, so whatever he says has a good chance of finding its way back to him. He’s surprised to realize that that thought doesn’t really bother him. He finally admits, “Yeah. I mean, I… also… care about him. A lot. Hence…”

Eddie gestures to the two of them. Shorthand for _hence why I just put myself through this whole ordeal. You think I’m enjoying this?_

Bev stares at him for a few seconds. Eddie finds her no less intimidating than usual—in fact this is maybe the scariest she’s been—but he holds her gaze, refusing to surrender. 

Finally she looks away and deflates. “Can you drive me home?” 

+

After he drops off Bev, Eddie calls Stan. Because it’s not a minor Eddie Kaspbrak crisis if he doesn’t overshare to his best friend and most devoted audience member. 

Eddie’s home by the time he explains everything: what happened at the Tozier family Christmas—he gets sidetracked a few times, going down unrelated avenues—and what happened tonight, at dinner and at Richie’s apartment with Bev. 

When he’s done, he sits in his parked car and waits for Stan to say something.

What he says, in a flippant tone, is, “Wow, it’s almost like he has a real problem that’s not going to be solved with one nice conversation.” 

Eddie screws up his face, caught between wanting to laugh and wanting to redirect some of his anger at Stan. 

Before he can decide between the two, Stan says, more sympathetically, “Bev has a point. _Do_ you know what you’re getting yourself into? It sounds like this blindsided you.”

“I might not be ‘getting myself into’ anything, unfortunately,” Eddie says, wincing at the unintended innuendo. And that only makes him think of Richie, who wouldn’t let something like that go uncommented upon. (_If you want to ‘get yourself into’ me, all you have to do is ask, Eds._) His heart gives a painful, fond throb. “I told Bev how I feel about him, so it’s only a matter of time before he finds out. But he’s mad at me right now, so that’s probably not going to turn out… great.” 

“Well, that doesn’t matter,” Stan says bluntly. “_You’re_ mad at _him_ right now. It happens. Grow up.” 

Eddie laughs, grateful for the tough-love and the opportunity to release some tension. “Thanks for the advice, dad.”

“Please never fucking say that again,” Stan says immediately. 

+

For the next two weeks, Eddie throws himself into work. And he finalizes the bachelor party plans on his own, with some input from Bill, who seems equally excited about all of Eddie’s proposals. And he goes jogging in the evenings to burn off what’s left of his nervous energy. And he considers that maybe his Xanax prescription was a good one, and he was too quick to throw it out along with the rest.

At this point, Eddie thinks Operation Distance Himself From Richie is not only ineffective but selfish and misguided, considering recent events, so he gives it up. Richie is still his friend above all else, and when a friend is going through a hard time you don’t abandon them just because you can’t handle it. He texts Richie the morning after the incident and each day after that. 

The first few check-ins are variations on, _Are you doing okay?_

Richie doesn’t respond but he leaves Eddie on read, which Eddie feels is, at the very least, a ‘don’t worry about me’ gesture. So, Eddie keeps texting him. 

_Do you want to get boba?_ Followed by, a minute later, _Oh, wait. I forgot it shut down._

Then he sends a google maps link to a different boba place. There’s no shortage of them in the area.

Then a few days later, _I decided on a hotel for the bachelor party._

Then, _I think you were right to say what you said. I might not have the healthiest relationship with alcohol either._

When Eddie thinks about it, and he has been thinking about it lately, the majority of his limited sexual experiences were had under the influence of alcohol. He’s no expert, but he figures that’s not a good sign. But it might be more about his hang-ups with vulnerability than a substance abuse issue. The idea of submitting himself to that mortifying ordeal while _sober_… It makes the back of his neck prickle with cold sweat. 

Then, _I guess it must feel hypocritical for everyone to get on your case when it seems like all we do is drink._

Then, _I’m not gonna stop texting you, you know. I have a high stamina for talking to myself._

Still no response, but when Eddie sees the ‘Read’ tag under his latest message, he hopes he at least made Richie smile. 

+

It’s a Wednesday morning, and the staff of Hanlon & Associates is an hour into one of their trademark meandering, unproductive meetings. Eddie is on his laptop, answering emails and mostly tuning it all out. Each time Mike says his name he manages to pull the appropriate answer or comment out of his distracted head after a few seconds of blank staring. 

Stanley, sitting on the other side of the conference table, seems to be in the same boat. Whenever they catch each other’s eyes they quickly look away so they don’t start laughing out of loopy boredom. 

While Mike reiterates something they’ve all heard a thousand times, Eddie’s cell phone buzzes against the table. A couple seconds later, so as to not appear overeager, he flips over his phone to view the notification.

His heart leaps into his throat.

Richie: _Can I call you?_

“Um,” Eddie begins, clutching his phone in hand. “I have to take this. Sorry.” 

No one protests as he slips out of the conference room and retreats to the stairwell for some privacy. Then, jittery with nerves, he calls Richie. 

“Oh,” Richie answers on the first ring. “Shit, I thought you were at work and I had a few more hours to like, practice my speech.” 

“I _am_ at work,” Eddie says. “I just stepped out. What, can you not talk now?” 

“No, now is good. Rip off the band-aid.” Richie takes in a deep breath. “So, um, hi, my name is Richie, I’m an alcoholic. That’s just a little icebreaker. Okay, so, the things about me are… I learned a long time ago that I can’t have alcohol in the house without drinking it all, like, immediately. It’s impossible. And I also, you know, I have one drink and I can’t stop thinking about how much I want another, like total one-track mind. I thought that was… normal. And I still functioned decently for years, so it’s not a real problem, right? And sure, I would have my big disasters where I would get kicked out of a bar or I’d, uh… drive home when I really, _really_ shouldn’t have, but then the next day I would always resolve to never do that again. But then in a few months, I’d just do it again. I guess it took me until… now… to come to terms with this as a lifelong thing, and, you know, confront the reality of… never drinking again. And saying that, it’s still… hard to accept. But I found this support group—not fucking AA, I don’t need a literal come-to-Jesus moment—and I’m thinking about my… triggers and everything. Like, we’re doing this right this time. I might even… get a different job, I dunno.” 

Before Eddie can formulate a response to the flood of words, Richie’s tone lightens and he adds, “And I need to give you permission to slap me next time I try to do this, by the way. You’re too polite and like, conflict-averse. Aren’t you from New York?” 

Eddie huffs a laugh, caught off guard. “Well, sorry if I’m not going to physically fight someone who’s, like, fifty pounds heavier than me—” 

Richie’s laugh is loud and sharp through the phone speaker. “Why are you bringing weight into this?” 

“I just meant you’re taller than me—” 

“This is hurtful.” 

“You’re _taller_ than me,” Eddie says again, beginning to laugh. 

“Then you could have just _said_ that in the first place.” 

They laugh for a while and fall into a comfortable silence. Eddie still hasn’t really responded, he realizes. But maybe Richie tacked on a diversionary joke for the purpose of taking any pressure off of Eddie. 

Eddie starts turning over a response in his head: _Thanks for telling me_, or _I’m proud of you_, but Richie interrupts after a moment.

“But I’m kidding, you know,” he says. “It’s not, like… your problem.”

“Hey,” Eddie says abruptly. “I was thinking. Would you want me to be a sober buddy with you for the bachelor party and wedding? I know it’s gonna be an absurd amount of drinking.”

“No, dude, I can’t ask you to do that.” 

“Would it help, though? Be honest. Don’t think about me, just… would it help you?” 

Richie considers. “Yeah.” 

“Then I’ll do it.” 

“Eddie—” 

“I’ll do it,” Eddie says again firmly. “It’ll be good for me, anyway.” 

Richie is quiet for a long moment, then he sighs. “Thanks.”

+

Later that day, Eddie lures Stan to the Lebanese deli downstairs by promising to buy him lunch. Really, his motives are selfish. He needs a venue to tell Stan everything without prying ears around. And Stan knows the drill by now, but he goes willingly anyway.

When Eddie is done reporting it all back to him, Stan nods thoughtfully and says, “Well, that sounds really good. Did you… tell him… anything else?” 

Eddie frowns, knowing exactly what Stan is getting at. “He’s going through a lot right now. He probably just needs a friend at the moment.”

“Are you serious?” Stan’s voice has a type of steely anger that Eddie’s never quite heard from him. 

“What? I mean, yeah, it just seems like—”

“After everything I’ve done for you?”

Eddie mentally stops in his tracks. He can practically hear the record-scratch. “Wait, what? After everything you’ve… What are you talking about?”

Stan doesn’t bother to glance around the deli for witnesses or even lower his voice as he begins to explain. “I hated seeing you all sad and pathetic and I thought you might need a little push, so I called in a favor with a casting director friend to get that Nick guy shipped off to Toronto and I reported Richie for harassment on two dating apps. Oh, and I called in a tip about that boba place to get it shut down.”

Eddie stares, mouth agape. Stanley just reaches across the table to start eating Eddie's untouched fries. 

Finally Eddie says, “Jesus Christ, Stanley. I didn’t even think you liked Richie.” 

“I don’t,” he says. “I just think you’d be a lot less annoying if you were getting laid. And I’m bored! Class doesn’t start until the fall and I need a project!” 

“No, you care about me," Eddie says, pointing at him and grinning. "You just have a really fucking weird way of showing it. Like, super-villain weird.” 

“Yeah, of course I care about you, idiot,” Stan snaps. “Why are you acting like this is a ‘gotcha’ moment? You’re the one being weird.”

Eddie can only laugh at the absurdity of it all. “Why did you have to get NoHo Boba shut down? I liked that place. That was _our_ place.”

“You like funding violent drug cartels? The CB was involved in a shoot-out last month. That’s a fun, romantic thing for you?” 

“The boba was good…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is such a hot mess and also weirdly meta lol hope you enjoyed
> 
> don't worry about noho hank, he cooperated with the police so now he's in witness protection and probably still managing a boba shop but in like... boise <3 (spin-off series coming soon)


	10. Eddie throws a legendary bachelor party!

The Bill Breakdown happens in early April. Eddie doesn’t get the full scope of what exactly happened, but the result is that Bill is at his house, unloading all of his doubts and nerves, and sprawled across Eddie’s couch as if to really sell the unpaid-therapist vibe. 

Eddie sits on his chair, legs crossed and nodding along. Bill talks about his parents and their divorce and how he never saw a healthy marriage as a child and that sometimes he feels himself acting like his father, getting distant when he’s upset, and that he doesn’t know how to stop doing that. He says that’s part of why his relationship with Bev ended—“plus, we were just, uh, _not_ compatible,” he adds with a dark laugh—and he’s been falling into that pattern with Audra, which worries him. 

“All your feelings are normal,” Eddie says. “It’s fine to have some doubts. If you didn’t have any doubts, then I would be worried.” 

Bill snorts, fingers splayed over his face. “Well. Thanks, but I hope you understand if I take your relationship advice with a grain of salt.” 

Eddie bristles. “What does _that_ mean?”

Bill peeks out from behind his hands. He sighs when he sees Eddie’s expression. “I just— I didn’t mean— I meant…” He drags himself into an upright position. “Sorry.”

“No, no,” Eddie says, feeling a stir of anger in his chest. “Please, tell me why you’re at my house at eleven at night whining to me and then belittling my advice.” 

Bill stares back at him, regret plain on his face, which gives Eddie a jolt of satisfaction. “I mean… have you even…?”

“Have I even what?”

“You’ve never really talked about having a relationship before, so I thought…”

Eddie wishes he could prove him wrong, but the worst part is… he can’t. He has nothing to throw in his face beside a few flings here and there—men he inevitably ghosted after he realized he didn’t like them that much—and a serious girlfriend or two before he figured his shit out. And, sure, maybe none of that qualifies him as a romance expert, but the subject leaves him prickly and raw.

So, Eddie unthinkingly lets his anger and defensiveness formulate his response for him: “You know, when I first moved here Richie said you were a selfish dick and at the time I thought ‘that’s a little harsh,’ but it’s not far off.”

Bill furrows his brow. “When the fuck did he say that?” 

“Uh—”

“Why were you guys talking about me?”

_Shit_. Now he’s on the defensive.

“Well, we both knew you, so we were just… talking…” Eddie starts, before he thinks: _fuck it_. Why is he carrying this secret anymore? Hiding it only makes it seem like it still matters. “Okay, here’s the thing. When we were kids, I was sort of in love with you. And when I told you why I moved here, that was basically the truth, but you know, I left out… that part out of it. But it’s not like I was carrying a torch for you for twenty years, I hadn’t even _thought_ about you in a long time, it was just the little spark I needed to make a change.”

“Oh…” Bill says slowly. “I mean, I’m… straight.”

“Yeah, I _know_ you’re fucking straight.” 

Bill frowns. “Is this hard for you?” 

“What, you getting married?” Eddie scoffs. “Don’t flatter yourself, Billy.”

Bill throws his hands up in exasperation. “You’re the one who said you were…” He trails off and starts laughing, and after a moment Eddie starts laughing, too. 

“I only told you to clear my own conscience,” Eddie says, and he means it. He doesn’t actually care that much what Bill thinks of it. Bill doesn’t own this. “You know, closure.” 

“Closure is a made-up concept.”

“Says the guy who can’t write endings.”

Bill laughs again and lays back down on Eddie’s couch. “I like that you always razz me.”

“Yeah, well, here’s a razz. Can you go home now? I have to work in the morning.” 

Bill looks surprised for a half-second before he sighs and hauls himself to his feet. “Sure. Uh, sorry.”

“It’s fine.” 

Eddie walks him to the door and lingers with his hand on the knob while Bill pulls on his shoes. Then Bill yanks him into a hug and shushes Eddie’s protests (“Do we have to do this?”). Bill pulls back with a rough pat to his cheek. 

“You’re a good friend, Eddie. I’m sorry if I’ve been shitty lately.” 

“Yeah, thanks,” Eddie says, brushing it off. It’s not the best apology he’s heard, but he doesn’t really want an apology anyway. He opens the door for him. “Goodnight.” 

+

“This hotel _fucks_.” Richie drops his duffel bag to the floor to pour a cup of cucumber water from the glass dispenser.

“It fucks?” Eddie questions in a low voice, but looking around the lobby—the marble floors and modern furniture—he has to agree with the assessment. Richie hands him the first cup of cucumber water and then pours another for himself. 

He and Richie flew into San Fransisco together; Richie proposed a road trip but Eddie didn’t have the six hour drive in him, on top of everything else.

Eddie checks the time. “Everyone else should be here in about half an hour. Let’s go see the rooms.” 

The rooms are nice, too, living up to his expectations from the website. The entire wall behind the king-size bed is a mirror, making the space seem larger and brighter. Eddie has barely had time to remove a couple items of clothing that he doesn’t want to get wrinkled from his suitcase when Richie raps on his door. Richie barges in, still holding his cucumber water from the lobby. “Your room has a balcony? What the fuck? My room doesn’t have a balcony.” 

“Best man perks,” Eddie says mildly. 

Richie messes with the lock for half a minute until he manages to slide the door open. Eddie steps out to join him, crossing his arms against the comparatively-chilly air. The city has a gray tint to it today, fog creeping up from the bay.

Eddie stands beside Richie for a moment, both quiet as they take in the scene. Eddie hasn’t traveled much, not really, apart from a few business trips and conferences where he mostly saw the inside of hotel rooms and convention centers. He didn’t study abroad in college either, even though most of his friends did and he could have afforded it; but his mother would have made that hell for him. So, he’s not very familiar with the feeling that strikes him now, one of discovery and promise. The sense of different lives and stories all around him. It leaves him a little choked up. 

Then Richie lets out an obnoxious _whoop_, breaking Eddie out of his reverie, and offers his hand to Eddie for a high-five. Eddie submits to it, his palm tingling from the force while Richie says, “Oh, _hell_ yeah. That was a good one.”

When everyone convenes in the lobby before dinner, there’s a quick round of introductions and re-introductions. Paul, Bill’s cousin, is in his late twenties and tall and blond. He seems like an east coast Ivy League kid, and Eddie has had extensive experience in that realm. Paul was probably on the rowing team. Chris and Alex bring a more hipster, comedy writer, always-ready-to-soft-pitch-their-screenplay vibe to the group. Chris mentions that he’s the only married one but he’ll happily encourage the bad decisions of others this weekend. 

When Bill introduces Eddie, he says, “Eddie planned this whole thing.” 

Eddie smiles under the brief applause started by Richie. “Don’t give me too much credit yet. But I think it’s gonna be fun. I already sent the itinerary to you all by email, but I do have some printed copies if anyone wants one…” It’s half a self-aware joke—and half a serious offer. He pats his pocket where the folded up papers reside.

Richie says, “Oh fuck yeah, I love this bullshit,” and starts poring over it when Eddie hands him one. “This is the structure I need. Honestly, give me someone to tell me what to do for the rest of my life and I’ll be happy.”

“You should get married, Rick,” Alex says, and then laughingly shoves Bill’s shoulder.

“It’s Rich. Or Richie…” Richie corrects, but Alex doesn’t seem to hear him. Richie flips over to day two of the itinerary and points to a section labeled: ‘10am-3pm: miscellaneous activities/free time.’ “Strictly regimented free time is my favorite.”

Eddie rolls his eyes as everyone laughs, taking the teasing in stride. “Oh, har har.”

“But for real,” Richie says, face and tone turning genuine. “Thanks for planning all of this, Eddie. It’s gonna be a great weekend.”

Eddie smiles back at him for a moment, touched, until Chris bursts out: “Fuck, yeah!” 

The group starts the night with a dim sum dinner in Chinatown. They sit at a round table, Eddie between Richie and Bill. Carts roll by with stacks of steaming bamboo baskets, but before they’ve selected any food, Alex makes a point of ordering them a round of beers. When six clear bottles of golden light beer are placed in the center of the table, Richie and Eddie both leave theirs untouched.

“I actually don’t drink,” Richie says after a moment. He reaches for the kettle to pour himself a cup of green tea instead, and offers one to Eddie. 

“Me neither,” Eddie says, accepting the tea with a nod and smile. Then he adds, “Well, not this weekend, anyway.”

“Of all the weekends to skip the drinking,” Chris comments. “You sure know how to pick ‘em.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Paul says. “I’ll drink enough for the both of you.”

“What a sacrifice,” Richie says, tone heavy with sarcasm, but not mean. “Thank you.”

Richie takes the initiative with ordering their first few items: shrimp dumplings, steamed pork buns, short ribs. “Chicken feet,” he reads from the menu, eyes wide with delight. “We have to get chicken feet.” 

A quick survey reveals no one at the table has had chicken feet before, Richie included, which only cements his resolve. 

The first round of food arrives quickly, and after they fiddle with chopsticks—Chris does a patient demonstration for Alex—they dig in. Paul is confused about all of the food to the point of seeming willful ignorance. He pokes at stuff and laughs and wrinkles his nose when Richie picks the bones of the chicken feet from his mouth.

Finally, Richie says, “Dude, it’s just, like, a dumpling. Just eat it.” 

After they order their second round of food, Bill turns his phone screen toward Eddie, holding it just above his lap. 

Eddie glances down to see a selfie of Audra with a green face mask, red hair spilled around her as she lounges in a poolside chair. 

“Update from the ladies,” he explains. 

Eddie doesn’t get a chance to respond before Richie is leaning across him to look at Bill’s phone, hand digging into his thigh to support his weight.

“_Ow_,” Eddie says, shoving him off.

“Hey! What’s this contraband?” Richie demands, pointing to the picture. “No girls allowed, dude. This is bros before hoes time.” 

“That’s the gayest thing you’ve ever said, Richie.” Bill only holds his deadpan composure for a second before he cracks a smile.

Richie sighs and leans back in his chair. “Pure homophobia. I tell ya. No appreciation for boys-only time anymore.”

“Don’t worry, I have plenty of appreciation,” Eddie says, throwing Richie a smile, before he turns back to Bill. “Are they having a good time?” 

“Seems like it.” Bill holds up his phone and hooks an arm around Eddie’s shoulder, pulling his head closer for a selfie. He sends it and then pockets his phone. “Okay, that’s it. Boys time.” 

By the time they move onto dessert (delicious little egg custard tarts) Richie and Chris have been engrossed in conversation for a while. Eddie listens, picking up bits and pieces, more interested in that than in chatting with the rest of the group. Richie asked about Chris’s writing work and mentioned that he does stand-up, and that caught Chris’s attention because he used to do stand-up. “I’d like to see you perform sometime,” Chris says. Richie tries to play it cool in his response, elbows on the table as he leans forward, but Eddie can tell he’s bursting with nervous excitement as he says, “Yeah, totally! I’m on every Tuesday night at Acme.” Chris says, “Where?” and Richie deflates slightly, but says, “I’ll text you. Or, uh…” 

Then Chris pulls out not his phone, but a business card—Eddie raises his eyebrows, watching—and hands it to Richie. “Yeah, text me.” Richie turns the card over in his fingers once before he slips it carefully into his wallet. 

When they leave, Eddie picks up the bill; it’s really not that much, as he assures a concerned Richie, and besides he’ll ping everyone for their share later.

Then, the night begins in earnest. 

They go to one of the bars Eddie scouted online, and as soon as they enter, everyone slaps his back in appreciation. The interior is a mix of industrial and modern; complicated light fixtures hang from the tall ceiling but don’t give off much light. It’s also busy, the view of the bar completely obstructed by the crowd—and there’s probably a two-to-one ratio of women to men. (Eddie did his homework, alright? And he knows his target audience.)

Eddie elbows his way to the bar to open a tab, gets plain seltzer water with lemon for himself and Richie, and then the two of them make a beeline for the only open booth in the back. They sit around a tiny table and watch the other four as they chat with a group of women around the bar. Alex says something, patting Bill’s back as he does—probably announcing the occasion—and the women smile and raise their glasses in a toast. 

“You’re killing this, Eds,” Richie says, knocking his knee against his. “You have a calling as a party planner.”

Eddie scoffs. “I don’t know about that.”

“I think it’s really cool how hard you work,” Richie says. “At… everything. Even when it involves color-coded binders.” 

Flustered, Eddie looks down at his drink, swirls it and watches a few bubbles escape. “Thanks. It’s the lawyer training.”

“No,” Richie says, still smiling. “It’s just you.”

Richie is looking at him, the corners of his eyes crinkled fondly, and Eddie can only bear it for a moment longer before he looks away.

“So, you were talking to Chris at dinner.” 

Richie shifts gears—and shifts slightly away from Eddie, retracting the casual contact of their thighs pressed together. “Yeah.” He reaches into his pocket for his wallet and shows the business card to Eddie.

It’s on a thick white card stock, pressed silver lettering: Chris Lucado. Comedian. Screenwriter. His email and phone number. Eddie turns it over in his fingers.

“He’s been in a few writers’ rooms. This could be an ‘in,’ you know.” Richie shrugs, his smile cautious. 

“That’s great, Richie,” Eddie says, genuinely. He hands the card back. 

“I haven’t really written any scripts in a while, but… I don’t know.” He shrugs again. “Probably nothing will come of it. People are nice like this all the time. Yeah, I’ll come to your show. Yeah, I’ll read your script.”

Eddie smiles and bumps their shoulders together. “Wanna get him really drunk, take some compromising photos and blackmail him?” 

Richie barks a laugh. “Yes. That’s exactly how I wanted to spend the weekend.” 

It’s not much longer before Alex comes to grab them. “Hey, Ricky, Eddie—”

“Richie,” both Richie and Eddie correct in unison. 

“—we’re going to another bar.” He gestures back at the four young women they’ve been talking to. 

And they are _young_, Eddie realizes. No older than mid-twenties. But that’s none of his business. 

“Sure,” Eddie says. He throws back the rest of his seltzer with a grimace that probably makes it look like he’s drinking something harder. “I’ll close out the tab.” 

“Oh, yeah, we bought them some drinks, by the way,” Alex adds. 

Eddie nods. That checks out. He approaches the bar, Richie trailing him, and tries for a minute to budge his way in between the other patrons and flag down the bartender, growing impatient and frustrated when no one fucking _moves_. 

“Hey, _excuse_ me,” Eddie huffs, trying to wedge his shoulder in between two people standing back-to-back. “I need to pay.” 

Then he hears Richie say, his voice somehow rising above the din, “Yeah, I’m ready to settle up. Edward Kaspbrak. Thanks.” 

Eddie looks over to him in relief, backing away from the bar. 

“I’m tall,” Richie explains. “And really hot. So people pay attention to me.” 

Eddie laughs. “Right. Well. Thanks for using your privilege to help the less fortunate.” 

When Richie gets the receipt, he signs in Eddie’s place. Eddie watches and comments on his form: “You think I sign ‘Eddie’ as my signature? Like an eight year old? What kind of ‘K’ is that?” 

“How many eight year olds you know with fucking double platinum gold credit cards or whatever…” Richie waves the card in his hand, just out of Eddie’s reach. “I’m keeping this, by the way.”

At the next bar, Richie gives up his own credit card for the tab, which he really doesn’t have to do, but he insists. And he still keeps Eddie’s card in his wallet—apparently he likes ‘the weight of it’—until they’re sitting around another small booth, voluntarily sequestered from the rest of the group again. Finally he hands it back, and laments the loss. “I felt so classy. That was my first and last taste of how the other half lives.” 

“You don’t have to use a starter card anymore,” Eddie points out. “I mean, unless your credit is really bad—what’s your credit score anyway?—you could easily get something with points.” 

Richie stares at him. “I love when you talk dirty to me. Also, ‘starter card’? Fuck you, that stings. I’m an _adult_.” 

At this bar, Richie talked the bartender through mixing a couple non-alcoholic drinks that are much more exciting than plain seltzer, so they sip on those while they debate whether the young tag-alongs are actually interested in this group of pushing-forties or are solely in it for the free booze.

“I don’t know,” Eddie says, watching the girls laugh at something Chris said. “Bill can be pretty charming.”

“Oh, spare me.” Richie rolls his eyes, theatrically slumping down in his seat.

Eddie whacks his arm. “I only singled him out because I don’t _know_ the rest of them that well. Shut up.”

“‘Charming,’” Richie repeats. “I forgot you were born in the 20s.”

“I told him, you know,” Eddie says with a shrug.

Richie bolts upright in his seat. “What? You told—? No, I _don’t_ know. You told him _what?_” 

Eddie feels some satisfaction in having Richie’s rapt attention, any trace of joking gone. So, he milks it, pursing his lips as he pretends to think. “Oh, I just told him that I had a crush on him when we were kids.”

Richie stares at him, brow furrowed. He seems almost angry. “Why?”

“‘Cause it doesn’t matter.” Eddie takes a sip of his drink. “Like, why not? Why do I need to keep it a secret forever?” 

“I dunno, you really think he needs the ego boost?” Richie says. “And what do you get out of it? I would literally rather die than admit to his face that I ever thought he was attractive.” 

“Well, I’m not you, Richie,” Eddie says, bristling slightly. “I’m not ‘getting anything out of it.’ I just wanted to tell him because it’s true.” 

“What?” Richie laughs, a little bitter, and looks down. “Okay…”

Eddie realizes how that sounded. “Richie, I wasn’t—”

“Yeah, ‘cause you’re _so_ honest all the time. That’s really admirable, Eddie.” 

Eddie rears his head back, too confused to follow the argument’s momentum wherever it’s leading. “Um. Sorry, did I… do something?” 

Richie winces, whatever anger he was carrying evaporating as his shoulders slump. “I don’t— I’m— Sorry.”

“Because I thought you’d think this was funny, I didn’t—”

“Never mind. I’m… tired.” Richie rubs his eyes under his glasses. When he pulls his hands away, his expression is back to a controlled smile. “What do you want to do for our ‘free time’ tomorrow?”

Eddie tells him his tentative plan—mostly the Fisherman’s Wharf area and a few other tourist spots, and they have to make it to the Golden Gate Bridge at some point—but the conversation is stilted. In the back of his mind, Eddie tries to work out why Richie would have reacted like that, but he’s at a total loss. 

It’s shortly after midnight when the rest of the bachelor party comes crashing around them, shoving Richie and Eddie closer together as they crowd in around the booth. 

“So, the girls left,” Alex announces. (Richie mutters, “Curfew,” under his breath.) “Where to next?”

“I’m thinking the hotel,” Eddie says, and when they groan like disappointed children he holds up his hands and adds, “Hear me out. This is only night one. You don’t wanna overdo it and ruin the real party, tomorrow night!”

“Good thinking, Ed,” Bill says seriously. “This is why you’re in charge.” 

“Yeah, and I’m so jetlagged I think I’m gonna pass out,” Paul adds. “It’s, what, 4am my time?” He drops his head against Bill’s shoulder and pretends to snore. 

So Eddie orders them two Ubers. Richie and Eddie load Paul into the back of the first one, then Richie slides in next to him and Eddie takes the front seat. There’s still some lingering tension between them, so Eddie doesn’t mind Paul’s sloppy presence. 

He mumbles incoherently in the back for a while, before he calls to the front, “Did we stick to your itinerary today, bro?” 

Eddie chuckles. “Yeah. In bed by one. I think we’ll make it.”

Back at the hotel, they say goodnight in the hallway, Richie and Eddie standing by their kitty-corner rooms, and watch Paul stumble down to his own door, trailing his hand down the wall. 

Once he’s made it safely inside his room, Eddie says to Richie, “I feel like we’re parents.” After a moment he adds, “Thanks for all your help, by the way. You’ve really been… backing me up a lot. I appreciate it.” 

“Yeah, of course. Least I can do.” Richie pauses, bites his lip, and starts to say, “You know, I really… appreciate you—” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Eddie says quickly, guessing where he’s going with it and not up to rehashing the sober-buddy arrangement. “Don’t mention it.” 

“Okay.” Richie smiles and reaches his hand back for the handle of his door, holding his keycard in the other. “But don’t forget to have fun, too, okay?” 

“I’m having fun,” Eddie responds automatically, before he even thinks about it. 

Richie makes a serious face and points at him. “But not too much fun.” He drops the pose and smiles. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.” Eddie turns away to unlock his door. 

+

In the morning, no one has a hangover that a little coffee and hotel waffles can’t cure, so they’re off to a good start, making plans for the day. 

First up, a trip to the Golden Gate Bridge, where they mostly stand around in the sea breeze and take turns snapping the same photos with their cell phones. Eddie leads them on a walk out across the bridge, but they barely make it past the first tower—pausing for a while to watch the boats dart around beneath them—before they turn back. 

Eddie didn’t intend to be the one leading the sightseeing for the first part of the day, and he feels somewhat guilty dragging everyone along with what he wants to do—but no one complains or offers any input. Maybe they’re happiest being along for the ride. So, next Eddie navigates the group through the city’s public transportation to Fisherman’s Wharf and sets them loose for the next couple hours among the many restaurants and shops and attractions. 

There, the group splinters. Naturally, Eddie and Richie stick together. 

Richie says he wants to go to the wax museum, but he suggests it with that kind of ironic excitement that he holds for a lot of things. If he’s bluffing, Eddie calls it: “Sure, let’s go.” They kill a good hour that way; Eddie takes pictures of Richie on a bike with an uncanny E.T. in the basket, and sitting behind the desk of an Oval Office replica. When they reach an Abbey Road recreation, Richie asks another tourist to take their picture so they can both pose as the fifth and sixth Beatle. The whole thing is silly and weird and forces Eddie to check his natural restraint at the door. There’s no room for dignity when you’re taking a selfie with a waxy Steve Jobs. 

When they return outdoors, they’re both laughing and ready for lunch. From the overwhelming number of choices, Eddie quickly decides on clam chowder in sourdough bread bowls; the day is chilly and overcast enough for soup to be an appealing choice. They sit across from each other at a small outdoor table while they eat. 

“I wish I could eat everything in this city,” Richie says, shaking his head forlornly. Then he aims his plastic spoon at Eddie, sitting up straighter. “Shit, with everything going on, I forgot to tell you. Ben and Bev are dating now.”

“Oh.” Eddie is no more than mildly surprised—and glad to hear it. “That’s great.”

“And they didn’t even _tell_ me. They were trying to be all lowkey, but I saw them holding hands and I was like, whoa whoa _whoa_. What the fuck is _this?_” 

“I can’t imagine why they wouldn’t have told you, Richie,” Eddie says, grinning. “You’re so normal and chill about everything.” 

Richie frowns. “You’re on their side?”

“There are sides?” 

“There’s always sides.” 

The mention of Bev puts Eddie slightly on edge; but if she told Richie anything, he doesn’t mention it or act any differently. And if she did tell Richie something… Richie ignoring it is not a particularly good sign. Eddie tries not to think about it—and when Richie starts feeding bread crumbs to the gathering seagulls, he has a good distraction. 

“Richie, _stop_.” 

After they eat, they stroll farther out onto the pier. It’s crowded and, as they walk, Richie rests a hand on Eddie’s shoulder or on the small of his back, a reassuring point of connection so Eddie doesn’t have to glance back and make sure Richie is still with him.

At the end of the pier, they stop to watch the sea lions, sprawled out over the floating docks, bodies wriggling as they slip in and out of the water. 

Richie grins broadly, leaning against the railing. “Forget the bar crawl. I might just park here and watch them the rest of the day.” He spreads his arms toward them and tilts his face up. “My brethren of the sea.” Then he elbows Eddie in the side and points, saying with unrestrained joy, “Look, a baby one!” 

Eddie is content to hang out on the pier for a ridiculously long time. Richie watches the sea lions, taking pictures and videos, and Eddie sneaks glances at Richie, his un-self-conscious smiles contagious. Eddie is glad that they’re getting some time to themselves, so he doesn’t have to monitor how close he stands or how much he looks. Eddie takes one video himself, panning from the pile of sea lions slowly over to Richie’s elated face. He watches it back a few times, smiling. 

Around three, they meet up with the rest of the group to begin the brewery-and-bar crawl that will realistically eat up the next ten or eleven hours. Eddie’s relieved he’s not drinking because that’s quite the daunting challenge. 

The first brewery is an industrial space with the huge stainless steel vessels just behind the bar. While Eddie starts the tab, Richie is thrilled to find kombucha on the menu and orders two. 

“Hopped grapefruit,” Richie announces the flavor, handing one glass to Eddie. He takes a sip and winces at the pleasant vinegar burn in his throat. Then the two of them try to explain what kombucha is to a skeptical Paul. 

“You really don’t know?” Richie asks, then turns to Bill. “Where do you find these people?” 

The afternoon quickly turns into evening. They visit four different breweries, in the process eating from three different food trucks—tacos, pizza, and barbecue—and playing an assortment of games, including giant Jenga and feather bowling, which is just as absurd as it sounds. 

At the feather bowling place, while Bill’s competitive streak reaches comical heights, Richie gets the scoop from the bartender. 

“What’s the deal with this?” Richie asks, gesturing to the long, trough-shaped alley where the game takes place. 

“It’s feather bowling,” she says, which explains little. “Originated in Belgium. The story is they used to play with old wheels of cheese and a feather.” 

Bill loudly whoops as his wooden cheese-wheel stand-in circles the feather target before settling down on top of it.

Richie just shakes his head. “There’s no way that’s a real thing.” 

Eddie and Richie play the winning team of Bill and Paul, and are handily crushed when Richie’s cheese-wheels keep rolling out-of-bounds and Eddie doesn’t put enough force behind his throws. While he struggles to get a hold on the wide, round block of wood, he says, “This is heavier than I thought. I can barely get my hand around it.”

Richie smirks and says, “That’s what—”

Eddie cuts him off, “What she said, yeah, thanks. I got it.” 

Ten minutes later, as Bill and Paul celebrate their victory, Richie mutters, “This game is ridiculous. I hate microbrewery culture.” 

After the fourth brewery, they take the party back closer to the hotel, where there are a few bars to choose from and hopefully a better night scene. 

The bar they choose is a dimly lit and low ceilinged place, displaying confusing art on the walls. Paul kicks off the festivities by buying four shots of tequila.

“Aren’t we really breaking that rule?” Chris asks, eyeing his tequila shot with trepidation. “Beer before liquor…” 

Richie pipes up, from where he and Eddie stand watching, “Hey, as an accomplished former binge drinker, it’s really more about the total amount you drink than the order… But yeah, this is a bad idea and you’re all gonna regret it.” 

Bill shrugs, says, “YOLO,” and throws his shot back.

“YOLO?” Richie repeats, appalled. “Is it fucking 2012?” 

Much like last night, Eddie and Richie are content to be abandoned as the other guys drink and talk to women. But unlike last night, it seems less like the women are just in it for the free drinks and more like Alex and Paul might get lucky. So, Bill eventually wanders his way over to Richie and Eddie, where they’re standing and trying to interpret the weird collage on the wall. 

“This place’s cool,” Bill slurs, throwing an arm around Richie’s shoulder. “There’s a piano in the bathroom.”

“What?”

Bill wrestles his phone out of his pocket to show them a picture. Sure enough, a small, spinet piano sitting next to the toilet—but not positioned so that you could play it while sitting on the toilet, which Richie says is a missed opportunity. 

Eddie says, “No wonder the line is so long.” 

“Are you guys having fun?” Bill asks them. 

“Oh, totally,” Richie says. “We’re trying to decipher the art. Is that supposed to be Trump or does it just look like him?” 

Bill gives a cursory glance to the canvas on the wall and then turns back to them. He narrows his eyes conspiratorially. “Can I tell you guys something?” 

Richie narrows his eyes right back. “Is it something that’s going to make me a conscientious objector at your wedding?” 

Bill seems entirely too drunk to pick up on Richie’s meaning. He sways on his feet. “What?” 

“Is it anything bad?” Eddie translates. 

Bill shakes his head. “No, no, nothing bad. It’s just… embarrassing, I haven’t told anyone, I haven’t told Audra.”

Richie makes a siren noise (_wee-ooh, wee-ooh_) until Eddie elbows him. “What is it, Bill?” 

“It’s just— at the wedding— I’m worried about saying, ‘I do’…”

Richie glances at Eddie, perplexed. “I mean, that’s like the entire thing you’re there for.”

“No, no…” Bill rubs his eyes with his beer-free hand. “Like, actually saying it. You know, with my sss-sst- fucking… hell. You know.” 

“Oh.” Eddie glances at Richie.

“The vows and speeches, I’m not even that worried about because I can improvise,” Bill continues, “But ‘I do’… You have to say it! You can’t say anything else!” His eyes are wild and he gestures with his glass, sloshing beer out over his hand and hardly seeming to notice. 

“Hey, let’s practice.” Richie takes him by the shoulders and steers him to sit down in an unoccupied booth. Eddie joins them. “Dearly beloved,” Richie begins. “We are gathered here today to yadda, yadda. Blah, blah, blah. William Denbrough, do you take so-and-so to be your wife?” 

Eddie snorts. "Did you forget Audra’s name?" 

Bill makes a few guttural sounds, not getting past the ‘I.’ 

Richie whistles. “This could potentially be a problem.” 

“I-I-I… I… d- _Fuck!_” 

Richie says, “Okay, that’s probably not what you want to say.” 

“It’s worse under pressure,” Bill explains, dropping his head to the table in defeat. “And this is the most pressure I’m ever gonna be under!” 

“You should talk to the officiant about it,” Eddie suggests. “I’m sure they could do something to make it easier for you.” 

“No, no, I want to do this, it’s like, the least I can do.” 

Richie raises a finger. “You just said the words ‘I’ and ‘do’ like twice each there, just to… point that out.”

“That’s not really how it works, _Richie_,” Bill snaps, harsh enough to have Richie rearing his head back. Bill adds, “Fucking asshole,” but he cracks a smile. 

“What if you said… ‘Uh, I do,’” Eddie says. “Really fast, so it flows.” That’s one of Bill’s strategies that Eddie remembers most clearly from their childhood, when Bill exclusively introduced himself as ‘Uh, Bill.’ 

Bill groans and falls back in his seat. “I don’t want to say ‘Uh,’ that’s so fucking lame. ‘Uhhh, I do.’ Sounds like I’m not sure about it.” 

“Better than I-I-I—” Richie stops when it looks like Bill might actually kill him. 

Shortly after that, Chris finds them and whisks Bill away to buy him another drink—“Don’t kill him,” Eddie calls after them, with mild concern. 

Eddie looks back to Richie and they give each other tired-eyed smiles, a kind of wordless communication that feels so natural. 

Richie leans forward and says, “You’re gonna need a new hobby once this is over, huh?” 

“I guess.” Eddie pauses, fiddling with his empty glass. Now that they’re alone again, he can’t help but dwell on Richie’s confusing mood from the other night, his flash of anger—_because you’re_ so _honest all the time_—and Eddie’s own conclusion: I wanted to tell him because it was true. So, he braces himself and says, “Hey… Did Bev… tell you anything… about me?”

Richie stares back at him, face blank. “What does she know about you?”

Eddie feels a cold sweat under his arms. “Well. When we— when we went to your apartment? We were… talking…” He trails off, losing his nerve. This feels very unlike when he confessed to Bill. Because this matters. This is present and sensitive and raw, not something time-healed and distant. 

When Eddie trails off, Richie says, flatly, “She didn’t tell me, I guess.” 

Eddie says, “Oh…” He still considers the possibility that Richie is lying, and Richie doesn’t pry for more information, which seems unlike him. He was hoping Richie would help him out and say, _Yeah, she told me you’re into me_, and react to that in whatever way he’s going to. 

But of course this can’t be easy. Eddie indulges in a minute or two of self-berating thoughts (_you’re a coward, why can’t you just say something? and now you brought up the thing with Bev, which makes this so awkward, why did you say that?_)—before he cuts himself off. Pointing to another painting on the opposite wall, Eddie says, “What’s going on in that one?”

And Richie turns to it and smiles, happy enough to speculate for a while.

An hour later, Chris and Bill return to them, and Bill definitely didn’t need that last drink or two. Chris, supporting a floppy Bill with an arm around his waist, says that it’s time to call it a night. The three of them manage to corral Bill back to the hotel and into the elevator and into his own room. Then Richie and Eddie lean against the dresser and wait as Bill brushes his teeth and stumbles toward the bed, shedding his shirt and rambling all the while. 

“I love San Fran, y’know? It’s like, a very cool city. I could see myself here.” He stops and gestures at himself, pale chest and protruding tummy, and waits for their response.

“Yeah, for sure,” Eddie encourages. Richie stifles his laughter with a fist. 

Bill peels back the sheets and gets into bed. “Where’s Paul? And Chris and Alex?” 

“Uh, Chris went to bed,” Eddie says. “Alex and Paul are still at the bar with some girls.” 

Bill waggles his eyebrows. “Girls?”

“Yeah, man,” Richie says, in a deadpan way that strikes Eddie as almost deliriously funny. 

“Good for them.” Bill lays back against his pillow, and sighs, eyes closed. “I miss Audra.” 

“Okay, buddy,” Richie says, pushing himself up off the dresser. “That’s very sweet. We’ll tell her you said that after the strippers left.”

Bill snorts and rolls onto his side. 

“Are you good?” Eddie asks and Bill hums in answer. “Okay. Goodnight. I’m just gonna… plug your phone in.” Eddie takes a few steps over to the bedside table.

“Eddie, you’re _so_ great.” Bill reaches to give a clumsy pat on the side of his face. “I mean it, you’re the best. Are you putting yourself out there? I could set you up with someone. I have gay friends. Hey, what about Richie?” 

Eddie glances back at him and Richie smiles. “Am I your only other gay friend, Billy?” 

“_Noooo_,” Bill says, rolling his eyes. “I think you two would be really good together. I mean, you planned this awesome party.” 

“Eddie planned the party, I can’t take any credit for that.” 

Bill’s eyes are closed, blankets bunched up to his chin, as he says, “You’re both great guys and you’d be so cute together. Plus, Eddie actually laughs at your jokes, man, so you need to lock that down.”

“Okay. Goodnight, Bill,” Eddie says, patting his head. Then he looks up to Richie and nods toward the door.

Once they’re out of there, they lean against the wall, laughing lightly, tired and relieved. 

“I’d say that was a success,” Richie says. “Well done.” He offers his hand, palm out, for a high five.

Instead of high-fiving him, Eddie pushes off the wall, turns to Richie, and kisses him. 

The maneuver goes a little more smoothly than he expects, so he takes a second to bask in relief before he assesses the rest of the situation. One, Eddie is on his tip toes, pressed bodily against Richie, who’s still leaning against the wall of the hotel hallway. Two, Richie is kissing him back; it’s dry but with pressure. His glasses bump against Eddie’s nose. And three, Richie rests a hand on Eddie’s waist, and tightens his fingers enough to convey some real desire.

Then Richie pulls back. It’s at that point that Eddie realizes he’s pinned Richie’s high-five hand to the wall above his shoulder so he lets it go. Richie chuckles. “Is this, like, a celebratory bachelor party thing, or…?” He’s obviously joking, eyes twinkling, mouth twitching into a smile. 

“No,” Eddie says, a bit breathless.

“You just do whatever Bill says?” Richie’s now-free hand slides up Eddie’s back, pulling him closer, making him shiver. 

“Yeah,” Eddie says and kisses him again. 

It’s brief but dizzying; Richie pulls back again before Eddie has the chance to even adjust to it. 

“If we’re gonna do this, you have to mean it, Kaspbrak. Okay?” Richie’s gaze is intense, both hands on Eddie’s shoulders. “This isn’t gonna be a little roll in the hay. You and I are gonna spend the rest of the week wrecking each other.” 

Eddie blinks. “Jesus. Okay, yeah.”

Richie dips his head to mouth at his neck, hands sliding down his back again. Eddie’s skin feels hot and he realizes they’re still in a hotel hallway at 2am. 

“My room,” Eddie says, digging his fingers into Richie’s shoulders. 

Richie pulls away immediately and starts speed-walking down the hallway. Eddie laughs and hurries after him. 

At the door, Eddie fumbles with the keycard, trying to get it unlocked. Richie presses up behind him, kissing his neck and looping his arms around his waist in a way that is extremely distracting. Eddie gets another red light. 

“Fuck…” He looks up at the room number. “This is the right room, right…? Richie, give me a second.” 

He tries again with trembling hands but drops the card to the floor. He crouches to get it. 

“This is the best foreplay,” Richie says and Eddie laughs, strained. He feels like he’s about to explode. He finally gets a green light and throws the door open. 

“I’m gonna complain about these cock-blocking keycards tomorrow,” he says as Richie follows him in, laughing giddily. 

+

In the morning, Eddie opens his eyes to a bright room—and a face full of hair. He has one arm around Richie, glued to his back, face nestled to his neck. Eddie smiles and shifts closer, appreciating the way that Richie nestles back against him.

He closes his eyes again—and hears another knock at the door. 

Richie groans and mumbles, “Do not fucking disturb…”

Eddie pulls himself out of the warm cocoon—Richie groans again, rolling onto his back and into the spot that Eddie just vacated—and pulls on a few articles of clothing as he makes his way toward the door. He peers through the peep hole to see Bill.

_Shit_.

He opens the door a crack to peer out. 

Bill regards him with suspicion. “Are you up?” 

“Yeah, yeah, I’m up.” 

“Breakfast?” 

Eddie starts to ease the door shut. “Sure. Give me a minute.” 

Bill tries to glance over his shoulder, grinning. “You know, I stopped by Richie’s room first and didn’t get an answer.” 

“Maybe he’s at breakfast already?” Eddie suggests, his face heating. “Or in the shower… Or maybe he’s a very sound sleeper…”

Bill nods, still smiling. “Okay. Sure. I wonder if I called him right now if I would hear his ringtone from inside your room.”

Before Eddie can react, Richie yells from the bed, “I keep my phone on silent, I’m not a total jackass.” 

Bill’s sly smile transforms into outright joy as he bounces up on his toes to try to see inside over Eddie’s head. “I knew it! Hi, Richie!” 

“How are you this loud, this early?” Richie calls back. “Why aren’t you hungover?” 

Eddie starts closing the door again, his face surely beet-red. “We’ll see you in a bit.”

“Okay.” Still smiling, Bill turns away. 

Once the door is shut, Eddie turns back to Richie and when their eyes meet, they both burst into laughter. Eddie crawls back into bed, and Richie wraps an arm around him, pulling him close to his chest.

“I wonder if we can sell our plus-ones,” Richie muses. “This wedding is a hot ticket.”

“Oh…” Eddie hesitates, and Richie says, still joking, “Sorry, were you gonna take someone else?”

“No…”

“Then what is it? We touched each others’ dicks, but being my wedding date is a bridge too far?” His laugh is more strained now. 

“Can we just talk for a minute?” Eddie sits up, cross-legged on the bed, and puts a bit of distance between them.

“Sure…” Richie starts, hands clasped together. “So. I like you a lot. Like, feelings and shit.” 

“I like _you_ a lot.” 

“Great. So, what’s the hesitation? Was the sex that bad?” 

“No!” Eddie says too quickly and Richie’s face lights up. “Stop fishing for compliments. It’s just… I haven’t had a serious relationship since I stopped dating girls at, like… age 25.” He winces, awaiting Richie’s reaction. 

Richie doesn’t bat an eye at the single-for-ten-years part of it. Instead, he says, “You dated girls?” 

“Yeah…” 

“Did you, like… have sex with girls?” 

“That’s super invasive, but… yeah.” 

“Did you like it?” 

“Richie, I’m gay, why are we talking about this? You never dated girls?” 

“No. Gold star for me.” He high-fives himself and Eddie hates that he loves him. 

“That’s kind of a reductive approach to— No, no, back on the main topic. I’m just— What do we do? What changes?” 

Richie shrugs. “Not much has to change if you don’t want it to. Not anytime soon, anyway. We can keep talking and hanging out like usual. My one request is maybe we do this more often.” He gestures between them. 

“Throw bachelor parties?” 

“Yeah. That.” Richie’s smile fades after a moment, his face twisting into a wince. “I should say, I, uh… I lied about Bev. She did tell me.” 

Eddie blanches. “_What?_” 

“I want more details on what exactly you two talked about because she said, her words not mine, ‘That Eddie guy wants your dick,’ but I know you see me as more than just a piece of meat—”

“Why didn’t you _say_ anything?” 

Richie throws his hands up. “Why didn’t _you_ say anything? You were sending some real mixed signals, dude.” 

“Don’t call me ‘dude’—and what was I supposed to do? You were _dating someone else_.” Eddie says it before he can stop himself.

Richie’s face lights up. “You were _jealous_. Oh my _god_.” 

“I wasn’t—”

Richie springs forward to pin Eddie down to the bed. Eddie’s breath gets knocked out of him slightly when his back hits the mattress. Propped up with a hand on either side of Eddie’s head, Richie smiles down at him. “You _were_ jealous.”

Eddie stares up at him, unamused. “Are you done?” 

“Almost.” Richie kisses him and his mouth is a little sour from sleep, but it doesn’t bother Eddie as much as he thought it would.

+

When they show their faces downstairs at breakfast, Bill says, with a wink, “Took you two long enough.”

“Yeah, we were fucking,” Richie replies, too loudly. 

Paul starts laughing like this is the funniest joke he’s ever heard. A woman, sitting at a table across the room with her two small children, glares at them. 

“No,” Eddie says, shooting an apologetic look to the family. “We were talking. We figured things out.” He directs this to Bill, imbuing meaning into his tone. 

Paul seems lost. “Figured what things out?” 

“How to work the shower,” Richie says and then leaves for the buffet. 

“So?” Bill prompts. 

Eddie lets a small smile slip past and says, “Yeah.” 

“Yeah?” Bill looks as excited as he has been about his own wedding. 

Eddie says, “Yeah,” again, his own smile starting to spread. 

Paul says, “Wait, are we still talking about the shower?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ayeee… check out the series for the missing scene from this chapter! 
> 
> me to Bill: you get all of my specific stutter-related anxieties now. i love you. 
> 
> There’s a couple weird specific details that I want to draw attention to, just for fun. 1) It’s sort of unlikely that there’s a brewery in San Francisco with feather bowling, but there is one in Minneapolis and it’s just too weird and funny to not use. 2) The piano-in-the-bathroom bar is actually in Santa Barbara and I'll never forget it as long as I live. 3) Yeah, I named Chris after Chris Lucado from Barry so in this AU he’s FINE, he’s just a comedy writer and he never accepted Barry’s Facebook friend request, it’s FINE. He’s FINE.


	11. Eddie gives a best man speech!

The wedding is in Santa Barbara. It’s a ridiculously gorgeous setting, a courtyard penned in with Spanish architecture and twinkle lights, the sky turning to dusk above them. During the ceremony, Eddie stands off to the side behind Bill and tries very hard not to glance at Richie, who’s standing right next to him. He can _feel_ Richie looking at him, so he stares out deliberately at the wedding attendees in front of him. If he looks at Richie, he’s definitely going to laugh.

It’s a large wedding; the biggest Eddie has attended. Rows and rows of folding white chairs stretch out before them, and there’s standing room in the back. Audra’s extended family takes up fully half of the seats. Bill’s parents both sit in the front row, but with a buffer of other Denbrough relatives between them. Beyond family, there are scores of friends, and enough industry connections for the wedding to double as a networking event. 

Of course, Audra looks radiant, her auburn hair pinned back in an effortless-appearing half-updo that probably took hours. Her dress is so simple that it only becomes more noteworthy; strapless and cream-colored, a satin sash low on her waist. 

The ceremony is short and non-religious. The officiant is somebody’s friend who took an online course. Bill says, “I do,” like a pro, but he’s a little overeager. He cuts off the rest of the vows so the officiant gently continues as the crowd laughs. Bill says, “I do,” again at the end and Audra beams at him.

The procession out is less organized than the procession in. The wedding party follows Bill and Audra in an excited huddle; the crowd gets to their feet, clapping and cheering enough to drown out whatever pop song plays through the speakers. Richie follows close behind Eddie, hands on his shoulders and laughing. 

They empty out from the lawn into the adjacent courtyard, and before the rest of the crowd catches up with them, Eddie and Richie grab some sparkling waters from the bar. The newlyweds are occupied with saying hello to everyone, and probably will be for the rest of the night. So, the rest of the wedding party gathers together for a celebratory moment. 

“Hey!” Eddie greets Christine. They clutch each other’s hands for a moment, reflecting the same energy, a mix between anxious and relieved. “Beautiful wedding!” 

“Yeah?” She’s had tears in her eyes since she linked arms with Eddie to walk down the aisle not even an hour ago. She blots under her eyes, laughing. “Isn’t this venue incredible?” Eddie agrees.

Beside them, Chris introduces Richie to his wife, Andrea: “I mentioned I went to his stand-up show last week.” 

This connection seems like it might be fruitful after all. Richie seems to think so, at least; he laughs a lot when he’s nervous, and he doesn’t get nervous over regular small talk. While Eddie half-listens to their chat, he scans the unfamiliar faces of the crowd as they file into the courtyard and form lines at both bars. Finally, he spots Stan and Patty, the recipients of their unneeded plus-ones. He flags them down as Chris and Andrea move on, saying goodbye to Richie. 

“Good?” Eddie asks Richie quietly, and he nods, flashing a cautious smile. “Really good. We’re getting coffee next week.” Eddie squeezes his arm and smiles back. 

When Stan and Patty reach them, Patty says, “Ah, my wedding date,” and hooks her arm around Richie’s. 

Stan immediately closes in on Eddie to start connecting faces to names from Eddie’s wedding planning and bachelor party stories. “Which one is Paul? The tall blond guy?” Eddie takes him by the shoulder and starts pointing out people, explaining who they are under his breath. 

Meanwhile, Richie says to Patty, loud enough that he’s obviously fishing for attention, “I’m so glad you’re here so I don’t have to third-wheel Eddie and Stan. Wanna go schmooze some TV producers and introduce ourselves as a married couple?”

It works on Stan; he abandons the gossip to shoot Richie a look. “You don’t want to confuse any potential employers.”

“Nah,” he says. “This is my wife, and this is my wife’s husband, and this is my boyfriend.” Richie spins toward Eddie, wrapping his arm around his waist. “What’s confusing about that?” 

Eddie submits to the bit of playful manhandling, but he’s distracted, still scanning the crowd. 

“What’s up?” Richie asks. 

Eddie frowns. “I feel like I should be a good best man and, like, go talk to Bill’s parents and Audra’s cousins and everything… Do some rounds.” 

“Don’t do that,” Richie says simply. “They don’t wanna talk to you, either.” When Eddie turns to him, laughing, he elaborates: “No one wants to talk to anyone they don’t already know, okay? Don’t be that guy. Come on, let’s go take a selfie with the cake.” 

It _is_ a beautiful cake: four-tiered, with paper-thin dried flowers plastered against white icing. They take a step toward where it’s displayed, a small crowd of admirers gathered, but—

Patty gestures to Stan who’s somehow already engrossed in a serious conversation with one of Audra’s uncles. “He’s being ‘that guy.’ We’ll catch up with you later.” 

So Richie and Eddie slip away by themselves. “I gotta say,” Richie says, his hand on the small of Eddie’s back as they maneuver through the crowd. “Stan kinda terrifies me. I feel like he’s gonna hire someone to bust my kneecaps if I hurt you.”

Eddie snorts. “As he should.”

“Well, you don’t wanna know what Bev would do to you if you hurt me. Probably involves a hot melon baller and your eyeballs. And she would do it herself just for the sick pleasure of it.”

“Jesus.” Eddie glances back at him, and he’s grinning. “Well. Let’s just not… do that then.”

“Yeah. Let’s not.” Richie catches his shoulder and ducks his head to kiss him, quick and through a smile. It lasts long enough for Eddie to feel his teeth against his bottom lip and for his stomach to swoop, then it’s over. When Richie pulls back he looks over Eddie’s head and says, “Ah, speak of the devil.” 

Bev greets Richie in her usual way: by leaping at him, throwing her arms around his neck. Richie catches her, stumbling back a few steps and laughing. Ben greets Eddie with a quick hug. They’ve grown closer recently due to the fact that when they hang out, it’s usually with Richie and Bev, which means they get lots of quality time to themselves. 

“Should I throw myself at you?” Eddie jokes, rising on his toes for the hug. Ben gives very good hugs and he smells amazing. Eddie tells him as much. Ben laughs and they turn to watch Bev and Richie, still clinging to each other and laughing as they spin in a slow circle. “And he was just saying he felt like a third-wheel.” 

When Bev finally lets go of Richie she pounces on Eddie for a quicker but no less intense hug. 

“You look terrified,” Richie comments, meeting Eddie’s eyes. 

“I’m fine.” Eddie adjusts their position so her arms aren’t choking him, and pats her back. “I _love_ your dress.” It’s sheer and summery, printed with a pastel floral pattern.

She says, very seriously, “Oh my god, _thank you_.”

“You match the cake,” Ben says, nodding toward it. 

Bev shoots Eddie a look that reads, basically, _Straight guys, am I right?_

Richie herds them in the direction of the cake, arms spread wide like a mother hen, saying, “Come on, let’s get a photo. For posterity. I promise this cake looks better than it tastes, like all wedding cakes. Fucking waste of money.” 

Eddie rolls his eyes. “Wedding cakes aren’t about the _flavor_, Richie.” 

“Oh, aren’t they?” His eyes go wide, in that way they do when he’s about to belabor some petty disagreement and he _can’t wait_. “Then, pray tell, what are they about?” 

“The pageantry!” Eddie regrets his word choice when Richie’s entire face lights up and he repeats, “The _pageantry!_” 

They continue their ontological argument about wedding cakes while the four huddle in to snap a photo. “Shut up for a second,” Bev says, holding up her phone. They oblige, pausing to grin at the camera. As soon as the photo is captured, Richie turns back to Eddie to say, “Imagine making an argument that food doesn’t have to taste good as long as it looks good.”

“It tastes fine, Richie. Your palate just froze in sixth grade or something.” 

Richie throws his head back and laughs. “Oh, my _palate froze!_ Who’s the one who refused to try the tripe at dim sum?” 

“You didn’t even _like_ the tripe!” Eddie protests. 

“I didn’t _like_ it but I _tried_ it!” 

“What is that supposed to prove? If anything that supports my point!” Eddie thinks, maybe, that Richie knows the logic is flawed—but if he's being baited into an argument, he doesn't mind. They end up laughing too hard to continue, anyway. 

Soon after, they find their seats at one of the long, banquet-style tables. Eddie and Richie are seated next to each other, close to Ben, Bev, Stan and Patty—and Mike and his plus-one. 

He introduces the dark-haired, broad-shouldered guy sitting next to him. “This is Josh.” 

Mike mentioned to Eddie and Stan that he would be bringing his boyfriend to the wedding—who is also, incidentally, the trainer at his gym. They exchange a look across the table. He’s cute. 

“Is that unethical?” Richie asks, once he gets filled in on how they met. “Dating one of your Zumba students?” 

Josh seems to give this a moment of consideration, but Mike quickly shakes his head. “No, it’s fine.” 

There are appetizers and bottles of wine on the table, and everyone helps themselves. Eddie watches fondly as Richie tries each type of cheese with each type of cracker and each type of spread to find the ideal combination. He thinks that each combination is pretty great though, so it always ends with, “You have to try this,” and assembling another one for Eddie. They’re only halfway through when hands land heavily on Eddie’s shoulders, making him jump.

He looks up to see Paul, towering and blond above him. “Hey, man, we’ll start toasts soon. I’m on microphone duty, so I’ll tag you when it’s your turn.”

“Yeah, I know,” Eddie says slowly. “That was… Yeah. I know.” 

“Okay.” Paul grins and gives Eddie a parting jostle. “Showtime.” 

“This is his one job,” Eddie mutters once he’s gone. “And I assigned it to him and now he’s reminding me of it? I kinda hate Paul. Is that terrible?” 

Richie smiles. “You know, he kinda reminds me of you… if you were more like him.” 

Eddie stares at him, unamused. “Richie that makes literally no sense.” 

“No, think about it,” Richie insists. 

Across the table, Stan seems to think about it. He nods. “That makes sense.” 

Eddie raises a hand to silence him. “Stan, stay out of this.” 

“Stan is my best friend now,” Richie says. “I forgive you for being weird and stalking me.” 

“I think that’s step one to becoming friends with Stan,” Eddie says, but Stan doesn’t hear him. He suddenly pales, and says, “Wait, Eddie, did you tell him?”

“Yes, I told him!” Eddie shouts, slamming his hands on the table. (Richie says, “Volume,” in a way that’s gentle enough to not get Eddie more worked up.) “What, you’re embarrassed? _Now_ you’re embarrassed? Maybe you should’ve thought about that earlier.” 

Stan sulks, poking at his plate of appetizers. “I just didn’t know he knew, is all.”

Richie puts together another cheese-cracker-jam combination. “I kinda wanna tell Nick he didn’t get that role on his own merit. He’s being really fucking annoying about it on Twitter. He has a fucking IMDb page now.”

At that point, Bev starts harassing Stan about getting her a role in a movie ‘if it’s so fucking easy’ and Eddie is content to sit back and let him lie in the bed he made for himself. 

Eddie listens and eats grapes from the appetizer board and zones out for a few minutes. Bill and Audra are assigned seats farther down the table from them, in the center, but they’re standing by their chairs, still emphatically greeting guests. Eddie snaps back to attention when Richie elbows his side. “Hey. Are you nervous for your speech?” 

“Kind of,” Eddie admits. He practiced it with Richie a few times, but refused to take his workshopping advice because it’s not a stand-up set. (“Is it not?” “It is not. There can be jokes, but I’m not gonna be that guy who tries to steal the spotlight with the best man speech, okay?”) Well, he took some of Richie’s workshopping advice. He still wants to get a few laughs. 

“You’re gonna do great,” Richie assures him. 

When the time comes, after Christine’s tear-jerker of a toast that ends with the two sisters hugging, Paul brings the microphone to Eddie. He says, “Showtime,” again which gives Eddie enough rage-fuel to banish the nerves. He stands up and clears his throat. 

“Hey, everybody,” he begins. “I’m Eddie, I’m the best man. I’ll make this quick, since I know I’m the only thing standing between you and dinner at this point.” 

He looks down the long table and smiles when he meets Bill’s eye. 

“Bill and I were childhood friends. We went to summer camp together every year from when we were eight until we were fifteen. Yeah, it’s very cute,” he says to the _aw_’s from the audience. “And we were penpals! How can you have a cuter friendship origin story? But then, you know, life happened, and we went our separate ways. Flash forward twenty years and something else happened—fate, or really good luck, or something—and we ran into each other again. Just… walking down the street. That chance meeting sent me down a great path, and I have Bill to thank for that.”

Bill looks touched, eyes shining and smiling. 

Eddie looks away quickly, because if there’s one thing he’s trying to avoid, it’s getting choked up in front of more than a hundred strangers. “I’m so lucky to have this friend back in my life—and I got Audra as a friend, too.” 

She blows him a kiss and Eddie smiles at her. He shifts his weight on his feet and takes a couple steps away from his chair. Richie told him to be loose; move a little, especially for the funnier parts.

“I have been through some great ups and downs with these two. Highlights include Bill thinking that I was trying to steal his girlfriend. Dude, I’m gay. Right? This guy thought me and Audra? Me? And Audra?” He gestures back and forth between them, hamming it up. There’s some laughter from the crowd, and Eddie encourages it: “No, it’s okay, you can laugh, it’s hilarious. He’s an idiot.” 

At that, Bill laughs harder than anyone, face flushed as he wipes his eyes. 

“You all probably saw the engagement photos on Instagram, right? On Venice Beach? I mean, it got, what, thirty thousand likes? So, yeah, I think most of the world saw it. Gorgeous, right? Well, only true Baudra fans—That’s their couple name, by the way, let’s get the hashtag trending, alright, folks?—Only true Baudra fans know that that was actually the second proposal.” 

Eddie nods at the murmuring of the crowd. Bill drops his head back and groans in a good-natured show of embarrassment. 

“Yeah,” Eddie continues, smiling wide and starting to really enjoy this. “True story. A few weeks earlier, on Thanksgiving, Bill proposed out of nowhere. No ring, no forethought, total surprise. He proposed over pumpkin pie. I think that’s what’s great about Bill. It’s also what’s annoying about him, but I’m sure you all know that. So, to wrap this up, I think the theme for tonight is the little coincidences that lead us where we’re going. If I wasn’t walking down that street on that day at that time, I wouldn’t be here. If Audra didn’t audition for that part—didn’t _get_ that part—she wouldn’t have met Bill, and we wouldn’t be here today. So, a toast to our past selves, who made the decisions that brought us here. They were good ones.” 

Eddie raises his glass and everyone raises theirs to him. “Cheers. And let’s eat.” There’s a swell of applause and clinking glasses. Eddie sits back down, feeling the delayed rush of nerves as he smiles at his friends and accepts their compliments on his speech. 

Then Stan says, “You know, Eddie, for a best man speech, it’s customary for the entire speech to not be about you.” 

Eddie snorts. “Oh, fuck off.” 

Patty reaches across the table to pat his arm and says, “It was a really nice speech, Eddie.” 

“All I’m saying is I’m glad I didn’t know you when Patty and I got married.” 

“I would have given the _best_ best man speech,” Eddie says. 

“You would’ve given a great speech,” Richie says, pulling Eddie in close to brush his lips to his temple. The public affection makes Eddie tense up a little, but he fights to loosen his shoulders. Across the table, he accidentally meets Stan’s eyes and they both quickly look away, Stan smiling down at the table. 

“You can relax now,” Richie murmurs, quiet and private, before he pulls back. And Eddie knows he doesn’t just mean now that he’s done with the speech. He’s done with Bill’s wedding, and done, in a larger sense, with his driving purpose since he moved here. He’s done chasing after the things he’s been chasing after. Then, maybe, Richie notices something in Eddie’s face because he laughs and says, “Does the idea of relaxing stress you out that much?”

Waiters descend on the table, serving the first course, and the resulting hubbub affords them a brief exchange without anyone else listening. 

“What do I do now?” Eddie asks, meaning it. 

Richie shrugs. “Whatever you want.” 

Eddie’s eyes widen with a momentary flash of panic, and Richie’s expression melts into something more sympathetic. He grabs Eddie’s arm. “Or not! I don’t know. Don’t worry about it. I’m sure you’ll find something to obsess over for the next six months.” 

“Yeah.” Eddie smiles and thanks a waiter as a plate of salad appears in front of him. “I’m sure I will.”

But actually—he’s not so sure he will. As he sits and listens to his friends begin to debate whether a salad starter is a waste of stomach space or not (Richie is firm in the belief that it _is_), he wonders whether he still needs to chase anything at all. Whether it was chasing or running away, it was always some kind of distraction. Maybe, finally, he can learn how to sit still for a moment. 

Eddie smiles and joins the conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaand that’s a wrap! I have to thank you all for reading this story all the way to the end! This is the longest thing I’ve written in years. 
> 
> (And I have to apologize for having no idea what to do with Darryl!Mike throughout this whole story apart from some comic relief and the laziest possible version of Darryl’s “Gettin’ Bi” storyline. So, there, he gets an OC boyfriend who is definitely WhiJo. They’ll be very happy together.)
> 
> Check out the series for two smutty follow-ups within this universe. 
> 
> Thanks again!


End file.
